A Leap Into the Dark Shadows: Book One: Victoria
by lucidscreamer
Summary: Sam leaps into Victoria Winters just as she returns from 1790. Surrounded by supernatural intrigue, he must stop her death at the hands of a vengeful witch or be forever stranded among the dark shadows haunting Collinwood. '91 revival series.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: _Quantum Leap_ belongs to Bellasarius Productions; _Dark Shadows_ belongs to Dan Curtis Productions. No copyright infringement of any kind is intended nor should be inferred.

**Part One: Victoria Winters**

"_How many times will it be this way  
With your arms around the future  
And your back up against the past_..."  
-- THE MOODY BLUES (_The Voice_)

(1)

_Blinding light_...

A brilliant flare, blue-white on some inner spectrum. A psychic light, visible only to an attuned mind.

Like a small nova, the quantum field scorched over, around, through him -- searing away the old identity, dawning on the new. Then, seemingly in the same instant, it was gone. Dr. Sam Beckett merged mind and soul with his new body, his new identity.

A new Leap had begun.

Swallowing painfully, Sam opened his eyes. His first thought was that he (or rather his host) had been sick. He was lying on a bed surrounded by medical equipment, "his" body felt as if it had gone nine rounds with the heavyweight champ...And six pairs of concerned eye were staring intently at him.

He stared back, wondering what to do.

There were four women, two men. An awful lot of visitors for a sickroom. So this wasn't a hospital, even a private one. No hospital he'd ever been in, anyway. This many nonessential people weren't tolerated in a patient's room, certainly not one who merited the amount of monitors he could see clustered about the bed. So, what was going on?

All this flashed through his mind in an instant. Before he could do more than blink, one of the women -- older than the others, with graying hair-- rushed to gather him into her fierce embrace. "Victoria -- Thank God!" she cried, holding him tightly. "Thank God..."

Oh, boy.

"Where am I?" The question was out before he could consider the wisdom of it. Fortunately, no one seemed to find it strange.

"You're safe, you're home, " murmured the woman, cradling him even closer against her shoulder. Her arms tightened protectively around him.

A second woman, this one with dark hair pulled back severely in a plait, bent over him. "You're at Collinwood, back in your own time. "

Her words, obviously meant to reassure, froze his heart in his chest. His 'own time' ? What the heck did that mean? He bit back the question before it could slip past his lips. His eyes darted around the crowded room -- crowded with everyone, it seemed, but the one person he most wanted to see. Where was Al?

The sudden sting of a needle snapped his attention back to the dark-haired woman. She held a spent syringe in one latex-gloved hand. Meeting his accusing glare with cool green eyes, she said, "Just a mild sedative, Victoria. "

Mild? His eyelids were already drooping.

Gently, the older woman eased Sam back onto the pillows. Her hand trembled ever so slightly as she brushed his cheek. "Rest now, dear. We'll talk about...everything...in the morning."

"Come, Elizabeth. Victoria needs to rest." The darker woman -- doctor? -- laid a firm hand on Elizabeth's arm and urged _her away from the bed._

"Yes, of course." Reluctantly, Elizabeth allowed herself to be led away by the older of the two men. The two younger women followed. One had a dazed air about her, as if she weren't entirely aware of where she was or what she was doing. Her companions helped her from the room.

Sam fought the effects of the sedative and tried to focus on the dark-haired woman and the remaining man, a tall gentleman whose ascetic face seemed drawn in...fear? Sam wondered what he was afraid of...and if Sam should be worried about it as well.

"Doctor -- " Tentatively, the man approached. His dark gaze slid from Sam to the woman still standing beside Sam's bed. "What have you given her?"

"Just what I said, Barnabas. A sedative." Her tone was reproachful. "She's been through quite an ordeal from the looks of her. Rest is the best thing for Victoria right now, so I've given her something that will allow her uninterrupted sleep."

She reached out and lightly brushed her fingertips across his sleeve. "Don't worry. She isn't going to say anything...dangerous. Not tonight. You have my word."

"She _knows_," he said with quiet despair. "I could see it in her eyes."

"We'll deal with that later." The doctor drew him from the room, leaving Sam to his losing battle with whatever drug the doctor had so thoughtfully administered. As their conversation receded into the distance, so did Sam's perceptions. Warm darkness rose up to envelop him in its cloying gray arms and he could do nothing but sink helplessly into oblivion's embrace.

His last clear thought as it claimed him was that Al had better be...there when he...woke...up.


	2. Chapter 2

  
  


(2)  


  
  
Muzzy-headed and cotton-tongued, Sam awoke in a strange bed. Nothing unusual about that. Since he'd begun Leaping, he'd woke in any number of strange beds, some of them stranger than others... He lay still for a moment more, blinking as the memory of his arrival flooded back. He had a lot of questions and no answers. In other words, a normal Leap. With a sigh, he sat up and squinted at his surroundings. Al was still nowhere in sight.  
  
Unfortunately, there was nothing unusual about _that_, either.  
  
Well, he couldn't lie around all day. Throwing back the covers, Sam started up from the bed -- and was astonished to find himself clad in a long dress of the type more normally associated with costume dramas than with everyday wear. At first, he thought it might simply be an odd style of nightgown, but closer inspection disproved the theory. It was a dress, all right, with full skirts that reached swirled around his ankles.  
  
_Curiouser and curiouser...  
  
_ He'd certainly never felt more like Alice. But what rabbit-hole had he tumbled down this time?  
  
He moved quietly to the door. The soft rustle of his skirts was loud in his ears. Distracted by the strange clothing, Sam opened the door -- and almost collided with the woman who had so thoughtfully sedated him the night before. She regarded him with shrewd green eyes.  
  
"Victoria...You're awake, I see. How are you feeling?"  
  
"A...bit disoriented, " he said. It seemed a safe enough answer. It was certainly a truthful one.  
  
"That's understandable." Her gaze flickered over his dress. "I expect you would like to freshen up in your own room."  
  
Sam nodded, wondering where he'd woken up if not Victoria's bedroom. The doctor steered him in what he had to assume was be the proper direction. Not having much choice in the matter, Sam followed.  
  
His companion slid another gaze at him, as if trying to decide whether or not to speak. Finally, she said, "Victoria, how much do you remember...about what happened?"  
  
Sam didn't know what she was talking about, but he knew an out when it was handed to him. "Not much, " he said sincerely. "Almost nothing, in fact."  
  
She seemed relieved, an odd reaction, he thought. She paused at what was presumably his bedroom door. "I want to see you later, Victoria, and give you a medical examination to make certain there are no lingering ill effects. If you should remember anything, anything at all, you must come to me, at once."  
  
She didn't wait for an answer, apparently certain Victoria would obey without question. Sam frowned. Victoria might have no questions for the good doctor, but he wasn't Victoria. He had plenty of questions and no one to ask.  
  
He retreated into the quiet stillness of Victoria's bedroom. It was large and pleasant, furnished with well-cared-for antiques. Curious, he hunted a mirror and found one in the dressing room connecting bed and bath. Standing before the full-length glass, he got his first real look at his host.  
  
Huge in a wan, exhausted face, her brown eyes peered back at him from the glass. A cloud of brunette hair framed a delicate, heart-shaped face. He touched his fingers to one pale cheek, the clinical portion of his mind noting the dark circles shadowing her eyes. There was a weariness, a haunted quality about her, as if recent events had not been kind.  
  
"Who are you, Victoria?" he whispered. Not surprisingly, the reflection had no answer. Neither did Sam -- and Al still hadn't made an appearance. He glanced down at his strange attire. That, at least, he could do something about.  
  
A short time later, he emerged from the bathroom wrapped in the oversized terry robe he'd found hanging on the back of the door. A quick rummage in the closet turned up fresh clothing -- _modern_ clothing, he was relieved to see.   
  
With a sigh for the necessity of grappling with feminine underpinnings, he dressed, pulling on comfortable faded jeans and a cable-knit sweater. He slipped his feet into a pair of flat shoes. He had no intention of subjecting himself to heels unless forced at gunpoint.  
  
He wondered again about the dress. Why had Victoria been wearing it? None of the others had been in costume. Who were these people? What was he here to set right? It was all part of the mystery, he supposed, but right now he'd prefer some easy answers to the challenge of solving the riddle.  
  
Lost in thought, Sam wandered over to the dressing table. He was relieved to see a minimum of beauty paraphernalia; he hated make-up, and found wearing it a degrading experience. With a shudder, he reached for a hairbrush.  
  
It was then that he saw the music box, nestled among the cosmetic pots and jars.  
  
It was lovely: gold and silver, with a jeweled lid. If the stones were genuine, it was probably quite valuable and something about it suggested antiquity. Carefully, he lifted the lid, liberating a delicate melody--a minuet. The music stirred something inside him, a sense memory buried deep within his host body. Disturbed without knowing why, he replaced the lid, stilling the music. A welcome, if belated, voice interrupted his reverie.  
  
"Sam?"  
  
He spun to confront the holographic representation of the Project Observer. Admiral Albert Calavicci was resplendent in shimmering fuschia and silver, tastefully accented with a genuine neon tie that flashed on and off as Sam, momentarily too stunned for words, watched. He wasn't sure if Al was a sight for sore eyes -- or merely an eyesore. But Sam was glad to see him.  
  
"It's about time you got here," Sam griped, keeping his voice low in case of eavesdroppers. "Where have you been, anyway?"  
  
Plucking a fresh cigar from one silver pocket, Al ignored the outburst and pretended to ogle Sam. At least, Sam hoped he was pretending. Sometimes, it was difficult to tell.  
  
"Not bad, Sam, if you don't mind me saying."  
  
"I _do_ mind." Sam said firmly. "So cut it out and tell me what I'm here to do."  
  
"Well..." Sticking the cigar in the corner of his mouth, Al consulted the glowing handlink. "You're in Collinsport, Maine. You work for the Collins family as a...A _tut?_ " He paused to shake the mechanism, then gave it a vigorous whack. Lights danced across the multicolored surface. "Oh, _tutor_. A tutor for David Collins...and you are, ah, Victor? That can't be right."  
  
Al administered another sound thumping to the 'link, his usual percussive maintenance, a technique that made Sam wince. Before Al could damage the machine -- or more likely his hand -- Sam furnished the information himself. "_Victoria_."  
  
"Right, right. Victoria, ah, Winters." The Observer stopped glaring at the tiny screen and flashed a triumphant look at Sam. "You're Victoria Winters."  
  
"I think we've established that, " Sam said, impatiently. "My name is Victoria Winters. Great. Now what year is it and why am I here?"  
  
The smile slid off Al's face. "Ah, you see, Sam..."  
  
Sam was getting that familiar sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. Looked like it was going to be one of _those_ Leaps. He sighed. "Can you at least tell me the date?"  
  
"March 15, 1991," Al supplied readily enough. And that was _all_ he supplied. Sam sighed again.  
  
"So what do I have to set right?"  
  
Silence. A sudden suspicion clenched Sam's gut. "You don't know, do you?"  
  
The Observer's sudden refusal to meet his gaze was all the confirmation Sam needed. He dropped his head into his hands and groaned. "You _don't_ know. You have no earthly idea what it is that I'm supposed to do!"  
  
"Not exactly, no," Al admitted, then hastily made placating gestures. "I'm sure we'll come up with something. _Soon_. It's just that -- "  
  
Sam thumped the dressing table with his fist. "I _knew_ it!"  
  
"We're trying, Sam! But there's something damn screwy about this family. About this whole damn place. We do know it's called Collinwood." Al gestured helplessly with the handlink. "Ziggy's working on it, okay? Round the clock. But the probability fields keep shimmying like a go-go dancer's hips. Best guess at this point is it has something to do with Victoria Winters."  
  
Since Sam currently _was_ Victoria Winters, that seemed a pretty safe bet. "I could've told you that, " he groused, shaking his head. "What does Ziggy say about -- "  
  
A polite rap on the door silenced him, mid-sentence. Both he and the hologram turned as the door opened a crack and someone peered inside. Glad to have a task he could actually accomplish, Al supplied the pertinent information. "That's Elizabeth Collins...Stoddard. She owns this pile of rocks and is the matriarch of the Collins clan."  
  
He indicated the second woman with a sweep of his hand. "Mrs. Johnson, the housekeeper. We don't have much on her."  
  
Elizabeth was first to speak. "My dear, Julia told me you were awake. And I had to see for myself that you're all right."  
  
Sensing her genuine concern, he returned her smile. "I'm fine."  
  
"Do you feel up to some breakfast? Mrs. Johnson prepared a tray for you."  
  
A second woman, in the prim black dress and no-nonsense bun of a domestic, came forward with a laden tray which she placed on the nightstand beside the bed. "It's just tea, juice, toast and jam," she said. "If you want   
anything else, you just ask, Miss Winters."  
  
"That sounds fine." Sam's stomach rumbled loudly and he essayed a sheepish grin. "I guess I'm hungry."  
  
"I'm sure that's a good sign, dear." Elizabeth patted his arm lightly. "After you've eaten, be sure to see Dr. Hoffman. We mustn't take chances with your health. Not when we've only just gotten you back."  
  
"Of...course." Sam wondered what exactly he was agreeing to. A quick glance at Al told him that the Observer was equally clueless, never a good sign.  
  
Elizabeth continued, "Carolyn will continue to look after David until you've fully recovered. I don't want you worrying about a thing."  
  
"Thank you, Mrs. Stoddard."  
  
Surprise flickered across the woman's worn but still attractive features. "I've asked you to call me 'Elizabeth', dear. There's no need to be so formal."  
  
Caught off guard, Sam stuttered, "I guess I...forgot. Just for a moment."  
  
The two women exchanged glances. "I suppose you're still a bit shaken."  
  
"I guess so," Sam said, nervously.  
  
"Well, we'll leave you to your breakfast, " Elizabeth said. She paused in the doorway. "Don't forget about Dr. Hoffman."  
  
"I won't," he promised. Beside him, Al shuddered dramatically.  
  
"_Doctors_," the Observer said, with distaste. "Nothing worse. Unless it's a shrink. " He chewed thoughtfully on his cigar. "Of course, _playing_ doctor is another kettle of fish. I remember this one time in Honolulu--"  
  
With a last worried glance, the women departed, leaving Sam alone with the Observer. Interrupting Al's lascivious reminiscence, Sam demanded, "What the heck is going on here, Al?"  
  
Al tried, without much success, to look innocent. "What do you mean?"  
  
"For starters, since when do doctors in 1991 make house-calls?"  
  
The handlink gave an electronic burp, drawing their attention. Al scanned the data scrolling onto the screen, one dark eyebrow rising at what he found. "Apparently, she lives here."  
  
Sam threw his hands up. "And that's not strange?"  
  
"I told you," Al said, shifting the cigar from one corner of his mouth to the other. "_Everything_ about this place is strange."  
  
Finally heeding the urgings of his stomach, Sam perched on the edge of the mattress and retrieved a slice of toast. "I appreciate your difficulties, Al. Now try to appreciate mine. Until I have some real idea of what's going on   
here, I'm flying blind. If I just blunder around, I could end up doing more harm than good."  
  
"I know that, Sam, but -- "  
  
A firm rap on the door interrupted him. Both men turned and watched as the doctor entered the room, her black bag in hand, having apparently decided not to rely on her patient coming to her. She nodded approval at the toast in Sam's hand. "You're eating. Good." She crossed to the bed and set her bag on the coverlet. "Ready for you examination?"  
  
Sam shared an uneasy look with Al. "Uh, I guess so."  
  
She nodded briskly. "Let's have a look at you, then. I want to make certain there are no ill effects from the time travel."  
  
Sam nearly bit his tongue. He heard raucous coughing, and looked around to see Al brushing tobacco flakes from his shirt front; the Observer had bitten through his cigar. Recovering, he gestured wildly at Sam. "What'd I tell you? Screwy!"  
  
He took a closer look at Dr. Hoffman. "Not bad. Nice gams and _great_ -- "  
  
Sam quelled him with a sour look. Another meaningful look convinced Al to play the gentleman; the Observer turned his back as the doctor began her examination.  
  
"You seem fine," she said after a bit. "Blood pressure is slightly elevated...And you're a tad malnourished. I'm going to give you a vitamin shot."  
  
When she'd gone, Sam slumped back against the headboard and rubbed his suddenly aching temples. "'Malnourished'? What's _that_ all about?"  
  
From somewhere, Al had conjured a fresh cigar. He rolled it meditatively between thumb and forefinger. "Did I hear right? She did say 'time travel'?"  
He walked over to the window and made a show of examining the view. "You don't suppose they have a Quantum Accelerator tucked away in the basement?"  
  
Sam refused to dignify that with a comment. Instead, he groaned. "Can't you tell me _anything_ useful?"  
  
"Here's what we have on Victoria Winters." Al read from the handlink, "She was born in January of 1966, and abandoned a few weeks later. Grew up in an orphanage in New York." He scowled, remembering his own troubled childhood, in and out of orphanages. "How can people do that to their kids?"  
  
"Any idea who the parents are?"  
  
Snapping out of his funk, Al shook his head. "No, and we don't know much else, either. At least not that seems relevant to the Leap. Schooling, early work history, boyfriends...Nothing out of the ordinary."  
  
"So what changed?"  
  
"She came to Collinwood," Al said grimly.  
  
Sam watched him expectantly. "And?"  
  
"She killed herself."  
  
  


** ** ** **  


  
  
  



	3. Chapter 3

  
  


(3)  


  
  
Sam gaped at his friend. "She _what?_"  
  
"Sometime in the next two days, " Al reported grimly, "Victoria Winters walks over the edge of a cliff. Some fishermen find the body."  
  
"Why would she do that?" Sam asked, shocked by the idea of the young woman's life cut so short.  
  
Al fiddled with the handlink, then admitted, "We don't know."  
  
"How am I supposed to do anything if I don't know what's going on?"  
  
Al looked as frustrated as Sam felt. "Ziggy's in a snit over this, Sam. We're doing all we can."  
  
Sitting back against the headboard, Sam eyed his friend suspiciously. "What aren't you telling me?"  
  
"You have no idea what we're up against, Sam. These Collinses -- " Al waved his cigar for emphasis, words momentarily failing him. "Take that Barnabas guy."  
  
From the depths of memory, Sam dredged up a mental image of the dark man from the previous night--Dr. Hoffman had called him 'Barnabas.' "What about him?"  
  
Al looked distinctly uncomfortable., as if wishing he hadn't brought it up. "The only information we've been able to recover on him isn't exactly... current."  
  
"What's 'current'? 1980?" When Al hesitated, Sam prompted, "1970?"  
  
"1790."  
  
_"What?"_ Sam gaped at him. "That's insane!"  
  
"That's what I've been trying to tell you, " Al grumbled. "But try telling that to Ziggy. She's on the verge of an electronic nervous breakdown."  
  
Sam ran a hand through his hair, and was momentarily thrown off by the unexpected amount and length of it. He shook off the momentary shock, and sighed. "So, what exactly is this information?"  
  
The Observer punched up the data on the 'link. "The only records we can find for a Barnabas Collins who matches our guy indicate he was born in Collinsport sometime around 1760." Ignoring Sam's expression, he continued, "According to the family history, he left for England in 1790, never to be heard from again. Unless you believe Ziggy, who says he's back."  
  
"Oh, come on. You're not seriously suggesting he's the _same_..."  
  
Al shrugged. "He showed up out of nowhere. According to Ziggy, either he doesn't exist, or he's the same Barnabas Collins who lived here in 1790."  
  
"There has to be something," Sam protested. "Everyone leaves an information trail--driver's license, Social Security number, credit cards..."  
  
"Not our guy."  
  
Not knowing what to make of it, Sam said, "Forget Barnabas for the moment. What about Victoria? Have you talked to her?"  
  
Al pretended to study the flashing lights of the link. "We, uh, had to sedate her."  
  
Seeing Sam's startled expression, Al said, "It can be quite a shock to wake up in somebody else's body, as you should know. She was hysterical, babbling about witches and vampires. We were afraid she would hurt herself." Or, more to the point, hurt Sam's body.  
  
"How is she now?"  
  
"Verbena is with her." Verbena Beeks was the Project psychiatrist. "She says we've got to go easy with this one." Al toyed with his cigar. "Victoria's emotional state is very fragile."  
  
Sam nodded, understanding that the Visitor's well-being took precedence over information gathering. Suddenly claustrophobic, he headed for the bedroom door. After all, he wasn't going to accomplish much anything by hiding out in Victoria's room, no matter how tempting that might be.  
  
Al conjured up a floor plan from somewhere and guided him to the main staircase. "Wow," Al murmured, with an impressed whistle. "This place is huge, Sam. Over fifty rooms, though most of them probably haven't seen use in the last couple of decades..." His voice trailed off.  
  
"Al?" Sam looked up to see what had distracted the Observer, and found himself staring at a vaguely familiar-looking face. "Is that--?"  
  
"Barnabas Collins." Al shook his head. "But why is he dressed like something out of the eighteenth century?"  
  
Not expecting an answer, he was startled when the handlink beeped at him. "Ziggy says the painting was done over 200 years ago...and that it's the same man who lives here now." Irritably, he slapped the device. "That's crazy."  
  
"Unless Barnabas is extremely well-preserved for his age, I agree," Sam said drolly.  
  
"Ziggy says, or unless he's a...vam?" Al thumped the side of the handlink with the flat of his hand. "Oh. Vampire." He did a classic double-take and glowered at the 'link. _"Vampire?"_  
  
"Calm down," Sam said, recognizing the panicked look in his friend's dark eyes. "I'm sure it's just a glitch. Maybe you should check the data, yourself."  
  
"Damn right I will!" Al assured him. He gave the handlink another shake, as if trying to shake some sense into it. "_Gooshie-_-" He keyed open the Door and disappeared through it, still yelling at the programmer and the computer with equal ire.  
  
Watching Al vanish like a ghost, sent a shiver down Sam's spine. He shook himself, wondering at his reaction. After all these years, he should be used to Al's disappearing act. So why had it affected him so strangely this time? Maybe he was letting his gothic surrounding get to him, he decided, turning a slow circle to take in the great, echoing hall with its towering ceilings and marble floors. If he weren't careful, he could end up as bad as Al, whistling in graveyards to keep the spooks away.  
  
But he didn't fight the impulse that sent him back up the stairs and down the hall toward his room.  
  
  


** ** ** **  


  
  
  
  



	4. Chapter 4

4)  


  
  
Al strode down the ramp leading from the Accelerator, pointed his cigar at the main console -- a large chunky table which dominated the room -- and demanded, "Okay, what's she got on our Visitor? Anything new?"  
  
When Ziggy had first been constructed, Sam had given it a deep baritone voice. Then the physicist had Leaped and the computer, frantic to retrieve its creator, had -- by various underhanded means which still gave Al the chills -- arranged to augment itself in an attempt to increase its computing powers beyond their already awesome limits. The attempt had backfired.  
  
It had taken emergency surgery by the Project's chief computer architect to save the day -- and Ziggy. In the process, the computer had gained a voice that was an octave higher, and everyone, including Al, had taken to referring to the machine as "she". No matter the 'gender', Ziggy was still Ziggy--a ridiculously expensive, frequently infuriating machine.  
  
Al strode across the blue-white chamber. At the console, Gooshie, the head programmer, cast a disapproving glance at the smoldering cigar still clutched in Al's hand. "Admiral -- "  
  
"Don't worry, " Al said, snuffing out the stogie in the ashtray provided precisely for that purpose. "I wasn't planning to smoke around Her Delicate Metal Majesty. I just want an answer to my questions -- _Any_ of my questions. Pick one, I don't care which."  
  
"Uh, well..." Gooshie fumbled. "She hasn't really found anything new, sir. Not that she isn't trying! It's just that there's not a whole lot to go on and most of the records aren't computerized, I mean, it's a small town and --"  
  
Al silenced the programmer's babbling with a look, then shot a narrow glance at the nearest computer pick up. "Since when do you need a mouthpiece, Ziggy? What's the matter, vampire bat got your tongue?"  
  
"I have located some new data on our Visitor," the computer said petulantly.  
  
_A voice like that,_ Al reflected, and not for the first time, _ought to belong to pouting lips, dark sultry eyes, and a body that wouldn't quit. Not to miles of copper wires and silicon chips. _A machine with a voice like that.... Well, it was faintly obscene.  
  
Al's dark eyes narrowed. "So spill it. What've you got?"  
  
On the central console and on the walls, lights flashed in what to Al were merely meaningless patterns, but which presumably meant something to the computer. Al tapped his foot impatiently, and shot a sizzling glare at   
Gooshie, who ducked his head as if dodging a physical blow. "Ziggy? Some time this Leap?"  
  
"I am downloading the relevant data into the handlink now, Admiral," the computer responded sulkily. Al glanced at the programmer, who nodded. The 'link was slotted into its customary place in the side of the console and the information was being fed into it. More lights flashed.  
  
"Great, Ziggy." Al headed for the exit, directly across the stark chamber from the ramp into the Accelerator. "If anyone needs me, I'll be in Dr. Beeks' office, talking to an actual human being. Something I don't get to do nearly   
enough of these days."  
  
The door snapped shut behind him.  
  
Not taking the hint, Ziggy "followed" him out into the corridor. "I find that to be an offensive insinuation, Admiral."  
  
"Good." Al fished in his pockets for a fresh cigar and came up empty handed. Damn. Have to stop by his own office before returning to brief Sam. If he was going to deliver more bad news, he really needed a cigar. "Find out something useful, Ziggy. Until then, go bother someone else."  
  
The computer ignored the order. "I am perfectly capable of multitasking, as you well know, Admiral."  
  
Al rolled his eyes. "Then go and multitask at someone else. I'm busy."  
  
"Are you trying to get rid of me?" Ziggy demanded suspiciously.  
  
"You really are smart, aren't you?" Al sneered, angling a look at the ceiling where one of the computer's ubiquitous sensors stared back at him with its blank electronic eye. "Now go pester Gooshie, that's what he's for. Some of us can only concentrate on one job at a time."  
  
"Hhmph!" Ziggy's speaker clicked sharply, her signal that she was no longer speaking to him.   
  
Al immediately regretted his snide tone. He was sure to pay for it. Ziggy in a royal snit was even worse than any of his ex-wives on the warpath. And you couldn't kiss and make up with a computer.   
  
"Ziggy?"  
  
The speakers remained ominously silent.  
  
_Uh-oh._ Al ground his teeth, wished for a cigar, then shook his head ruefully. After five marriages, you'd think he'd have learned by now...  
  
Beside him, a door swooshed quietly open and a cultured voice asked, "Al? Did you want to see me?"  
  
Abandoning glaring at the ceiling as an unproductive tactic, Al turned. Verbena Beeks stood in the open door of her office. A willowy woman with wise almond eyes and a perfect mahogany complexion, Verbena was impeccable in an orange and red silk pantsuit beneath her white lab coat. Self-lit earrings cast soft veils of color against her neck.   
  
She led Al into her office and waved him to a chair. "So what can I do for you today, Admiral?"  
  
While Al's office was little more than a small white room he preferred to avoid, Verbena had made hers into a welcoming space filled with warm colors, hardy succulents in Sante Fe pottery, woven rugs and wallhangings, and   
large framed posters in place of windows. It was difficult to get an office with a view when you were hundreds of feet underground.  
  
Al shifted uneasily in his chair. "I, ah, need some more information on our Visitor."  
  
"She's sleeping more-or-less peacefully, now." She sighed, with feeling. For a time there...  
  
"You haven't had to -- ?"  
  
"No, no. No drugs, thank goodness." Verbena was always conscious of the danger to Sam's systems from the measures they frequently had to employ for the safety of their Visitors. It was a different Visitor, but it was always   
Sam's body. "She's still extremely disoriented -- and frightened. But not to the point of hysteria."  
  
Good news, or near enough. "Have you talked to her?"  
  
"Briefly." She toyed with one of the files on her desk. "As I said, she's frightened. I don't know how much we're going to get out of this one. Between whatever trauma she's been through and the Swiss cheese effect..."  
  
She let the thought trail off, and fixed Al with a sharp gaze. "Exactly what did happen to her?"  
  
"I wish I knew."   
  
She heard the frustration in his voice and her brows rose. "Can't Ziggy--?"  
  
He snorted derisively. Her eyebrows rose higher. "What have you done to her this time?"  
  
"Nothing!" Al was the picture of innocence. "You know how she is."  
  
"I know you," she said, with a twinkle in her brown eyes. "So, what did you do?"  
  
Al glared at her; she merely folded her arms and waited. After a moment, he surrendered.   
  
"Okay, so I might have been a little short with her. I don't have time to mollycoddle a damn computer! I have to get back to keep an eye on Sam."  
  
The mischief faded from her eyes. "How is he?"  
  
"In the dark, as usual." Al sighed. "That's why I need information. What I don't need is a spoiled brat computer that won't do its job unless I treat it to the electronic equivalent of dinner and a movie."  
  
Verbena weathered this outburst stoically, then gently observed, "We're all worried about Sam, even Ziggy. Maybe especially Ziggy."  
  
"I know, I know." Al raised his hands, warding off the analysis. "Sam's her 'father' and, despite the fact that he gave her an ego the size of Montana, she 'needs' him. How many times have I heard that one?"  
  
It wasn't Ziggy's fault that Sam had stepped into the Accelerator before the Retrieval Program was ready. Not that Al wouldn't love to lay the blame at the computer's feet, had it possessed any. Unfortunately, his own innate sense of fairness wouldn't let him.   
  
Gradually, he became aware of the psychiatrist's quiet regard. She was watching him closely, watching the interplay of emotions as they passed quickly over his expressive features. Al shifted uncomfortably; he'd had more than his fill of shrinks when he'd returned from Vietnam.  
  
"So, what do I have to do?"  
  
She raised an eyebrow. "Do?"  
  
"To make Ziggy happy, " he said impatiently. "She's not speaking to me."  
It was Verbena's turn to sigh. "What do you think you should do?"  
  
"Aw, no...Not shrink-speak!" Al bolted from his chair, on his feet and moving before she could react. "I'm outta here."  
  
He made a bee-line for the door, but she dodged gracefully around her desk and headed him off before he could escape. _"Admiral..."  
_  
"I didn't come in here to get my head shrunk," Al snapped, reaching around her to slap at the door controls. "I just need something -- anything -- to tell Sam."  
  
"Here." A manila folder magically appeared in her hand, and she wafted it under his noise. "Transcripts of my conversations with the Visitor. It isn't much -- "  
  
"I'll take it." He snatched the folder, then darted through the door as it slid open. He accelerated along the corridor, skimming the data as he went, free hand patting his pockets in a futile search for a cigar. Curiosity made   
him stop by the Waiting Room but, as Verbena had said, the Visitor was sleeping.  
  
Sometimes, the Visitor was coherent enough to be helpful. At other times, the "Swiss cheese effect" of Leaping left them with almost as many holes in their memories as Sam.   
  
Some believed they had been abducted by aliens, some that they were dead, or dreaming. "Abductees" were usually cooperative, though not always the easiest to deal with. 'Take me to your leader,' and all that nonsense. Al snorted under his breath.   
  
Still, they were easier to handle than the "deceased," who tended to retreat into catatonia, becoming totally unresponsive. The "dreamers" were the simplest to deal with. To them, it was all harmless fantasy.   
  
The point was that every Leapee was affected differently, every Leap was different, and you couldn't predict how the Visitor would react until they were actually in the Waiting Room.  
  
Al studied the still form on the hospital bed, his worried eyes automatically tracking vital signs across the ranks of monitors clustered around it. He was no doctor, but after so many Leaps, he'd learned enough to know when   
there was cause for alarm. For now, everything seemed all right. Everything except the mind inhabiting the body lying on the bed.  
  
He left the silent Waiting Room and returned to the Control Center. Along with the ever-anxious Gooshie, Tina was there. When she saw Al, she smiled and handed him a small bundle which crackled promisingly beneath his fingers.  
  
He grinned his thanks, and slipped the gift into his jacket. Thus armored, he turned to face the flickering console at the center of the room. Time to bite the bullet. "Ziggy."  
  
The console's lights flashed faster, reds predominating; otherwise, the computer didn't deign to respond. Taking a deep breath, Al tried again. "All right, Ziggy, I'm sorry. Okay?"  
  
The only response was more sulky silence.  
  
Gooshie exchanged furtive glances with Tina. The redhead frowned and gestured encouragingly at Al, who gritted his teeth and counted to ten. It wouldn't do anyone any good if he blew up at the damn machine again. No   
matter how it provoked him. "Ziggy, I said I'm sorry. I shouldn't have yelled at you. You're a wonderful, brilliant, splendid computer. Okay?"  
  
"You don't sound like you mean it."  
  
Al's dark gaze snapped around the room, daring anyone to comment. He clamped down firmly on the urge to tell Ziggy exactly what he really meant; he could call her names later. In a studiously calm voice, he said, "Ziggy,   
I've already apologized. Now, can we get back to helping Sam? You remember him, don't you? The reason we're all here?"  
  
Gooshie groaned and rolled his eyes ceilingward. Beside him, Tina glared a warning at Al; he was coming perilously close to alienating the temperamental parallel, hybrid computer again.   
  
"_I_ am always thinking about Dr. Beckett," Ziggy said nastily, her tone implying that Al was less than diligent in that regard. "There is nothing more important to me than the well-being of my father."  
  
It wasn't often that the computer got to him, but hearing the strain in its artificial voice as it mentioned its creator was enough to soften his irritation. Relenting, Al said, "I know, Ziggy. So let's get back to work and see what we can do to ensure his well-being, okay?"  
  
"All available data has been downloaded into the handlink, Admiral," the computer said briskly, and Al knew he'd been forgiven. Taking that as his cue, Gooshie retrieved the device, which blinked to life as he handed it to Al.  
  
The Observer eyed the thing warily. "Is it too much to hope for something useful this time?"  
  
Gooshie shrugged, glanced cautiously at the spinning sphere above the console, and shrugged again.  
  
"That's what I figured," Al muttered. With the link firmly in hand, he turned on his heel and strode briskly up the ramp to the Accelerator. "All right, people, let's earn our paychecks. You too, Ziggy."  
  
He palmed the scanner beside the door and it slid aside, admitting him into the inner sanctum of the torus-shaped Accelerator, and from there, into the Imaging Chamber. The door hissed as it sealed behind him, and Al was alone in the cool, blue-white stillness -- alone, except for Ziggy, who said, "I have locked on to Dr. Beckett, Admiral. Are you ready?"  
  
"Whenever you are, Ziggy." Al straightened his lapels, squared his shoulders, took a deep breath -- and, in a nausea-inducing tornado of images, plunged into the past.  
  


***  


  



	5. Chapter 5

(5)  
  
  
A search of Vicki's room had turned up her diary in the stand beside the bed. Sam firmly quashed a flicker of guilt; he often had to snoop in the service of a Leap. Curling up on the bed, he began to read.  
  
Vicki kept her diary conscientiously. The daily entries revealed a sensitive, introspective individual who was fascinated by the history of her employers' family. As he skimmed the journal, Sam learned more about the Collins family history than he really wanted to know. He could only wish that she had been a bit more observant about the people currently residing at Collinwood.  
  
He turned the page. Maybe there was something useful...A name caught his eye. He stopped skimming, and settled down to read the passage more carefully.  
  
It quickly became clear that she had started to develop romantic feelings for the modern Barnabas Collins. Even so, Sam got the impression this too was colored with her fascination for the past, as he read about Barnabas' courtly manner and old-world charm. She wrote that there was something about him that was at once strange and familiar...especially the "dark fire in his eyes" when he looked at her.  
  
Reading further only strengthened his impression of her as a hopeless romantic-- but also a lonely person in search of an identity. She was an orphan, without roots or family, and she yearned desperately for some sense of history to call her own. For some reason, she seemed to feel that, at Collinwood, she might find at least a clue to her mysterious past. But, according to her journal, all she had found so far were more mysteries.  
  
Setting the diary aside, he scrubbed tiredly at his eyes. He hoped Al was having more luck back at the Project. A glance at the clock informed him that several hours had passed since he'd begun his search. He sighed. No wonder his eyes felt like he could use them for sandpaper.  
  
Deciding he wasn't going to achieve anything by hiding in Vicki's room, he ventured out to explore the house. By trial and error, he located the main stairs and headed down them.  
  
On the landing, he stumbled to a halt, startled by the sight of a familiar face gazing down at him from the wall.   
  
He stared at the full-length portrait, his eidetic memory supplying a mental snapshot of the man he'd seen the night before. There was no mistaking the resemblance. In fact, except for the 18th-century clothes, they might be the same man. Was this what was confusing Ziggy, causing him to fixate on the previous Barnabas? Sam hoped that glitch would be corrected soon; he needed all the help he could get.  
  
As if conjured by the thought, Al suddenly stepped through a glowing Door which had appeared without warning on the staircase. The Observer glanced at the painting--and did a classic double-take. Taking the ubiquitous cigar from his mouth, Al waved it at the portrait. "Hey, that's our guy! " He frowned. "Why is he dressed like that?"  
  
"Never mind that now," Sam said impatiently. "Please tell me there's good news."  
  
"Depends on your definition of 'good.'" Al stuck the cigar back in his mouth and waggled the 'link at Sam. "Verbena's been talking to our Visitor, but..."  
  
"_But?"_ prompted Sam, fearing the worst.  
  
"She still insists there's a vampire on the loose." Al automatically covered his throat, evoking a faint grin from Sam.  
  
"I'll bet you're thrilled about that."  
  
"As long as one doesn't actually jump out at me with fangs bared--" Al grumbled, then noticed Sam's pointed gaze, and hastily stuffed the offending hand in his pocket.  
  
"You've checked the data?" Sam asked.  
  
"Fourteen ways from Sunday. Ziggy says he's right, we're all wrong,...and Barnabas Collins is an extremely well-preserved 200 year old man."  
  
Sam sighed. "Check it again, all right?"  
  
Al tossed off a casual salute. "Back in a flash."  
  
He summoned the Door and stepped through. The Door wasn't really there, of course, any more than Al was really there. It was a conceit, designed to ease the transition between Project and Leap site for both Observer and Leaper. It served as a kind of visual metaphor, a buffer for the Observer's comings and goings. Most importantly, from Sam's point of view, it kept Al from winking on and off like a defective television set.  
  
Or a ghost.  
  
Sam felt an unexpected shiver ripple down his spine. Chiding himself--he was getting as bad as Al--Sam nonetheless wished that particular analogy hadn't occurred to him. Without thinking, he turned and wandered back to his room.   
  
He was startled to find the music box open. Wondering who could've set it to playing, he glanced around the room--and found himself staring at a little girl of about nine or ten. Sam had no idea who she was; Al hadn't mentioned any Collins children except David.   
  
She was studying him closely, a puzzled frown drawing her fine brows together. "Who are you?" she asked. "You're not Miss Winters."  
  
One of the oddities of Quantum Leaping (and there were many) was the ability of certain people to see him as himself. Usually, the phenomenon was limited to small children, animals, and a few others. This girl seemed older than the usual age (about five), but it was obvious she wasn't seeing Victoria Winters.  
  
Not without a qualm or two, Sam said, "My name is Sam. What's yours?"  
  
"Sarah."  
  
An electric shock jolted down his spine. That was one of the names in Vicki's diary, one of the Collins ancestors. Carefully, he said, "Sarah...Collins."  
  
She nodded. "Where is Miss Winters?"  
  
"Away," Sam said vaguely. "I've sort of taken her place for a little while. Don't worry, she's safe."  
  
"I'm glad." Her inquisitive gaze fell on the music box as Sam reached for it and gently closed the lid. "That was Josette's. My big brother gave it to her."  
  
Was he really having this conversation? "Your brother?"  
  
"Barnabas. He gave it to Miss Winters, too."  
  
_He gave it to Miss Winters,_ too_?_ Sam stared at her. Was she confusing the two men, as Ziggy was? Or...could it be there was only one Barnabas Collins, a man somehow displaced 200 years in time?  
  
"Why are you here?" Sarah asked.  
  
Good question. Unfortunately, he didn't have a good answer. Sam sat down on the bench before the dressing table. "Sarah, do you know why anyone would want to hurt Miss Winters?"  
  
From reading Vicki's diary, he had formed an opinion of his host, and she didn't seem like a woman on the verge of suicide, despite her obvious loneliness. Her writings had painted a portrait of a lively spirit, determined, intelligent, and remarkably well-adjusted, despite her romantic leanings.  
  
"Hurt her?" Sarah's smooth brow furrowed. "No, he doesn't want to hurt her. It's because of Josette, you see."  
  
Intent on every nuance, Sam leaned closer. "Who doesn't want to hurt her, Sarah? Barnabas? Please, honey, if you know something, you have to tell me. I'm here to help Miss Winters."  
  
"It was the witch, before, who tried to hurt her. Barnabas loves Miss Winters, but it's because of Josette. He wants Miss Winters to be his new Josette."  
  
Sam's head was spinning. He closed his eyes trying to make sense of it all. "Sarah..." There was no answer. He opened his eyes, looked around. She was gone, as if she'd never been there. He hadn't heard the door open or close, so how ...?  
  
Had he spent the last few minutes talking to a ghost?  
  
Ridiculous. Sam rose and began to pace, shaking his head and muttering under his breath. "Ghosts..."  
  
_"Ghosts?_ Where?" Al's voice went up half an octave, and he nearly gave himself whiplash trying to look in all directions at once. _"Where?"  
_  
Sam yelped and nearly fell over the bench. He hadn't heard the Door; Al must have come in out in the hallway. "Don't do that!" he said, righting himself. He'd once threatened to make the Observer wear a bell; it still seemed like a good idea.  
  
"What do you mean 'ghosts'?" Al demanded, getting back to the heart of the matter.  
  
"That doesn't matter--"  
  
"Maybe not to _you_--"  
  
"_Al_." Sam didn't have the energy to deal with his friend's paranormal paranoia. "Just tell me what happened when Victoria showed up in the Waiting Room. Before she was sedated."  
  
Al consulted the handlink. "Well, she was pretty upset. She seemed to think someone was trying to kill her. And she wasn't sure whether it was 1790 or 1991."  
  
When the Observer hesitated, Sam prompted, "What else?"  
  
Al cleared his throat, stalling. "Sam, she wasn't exactly coherent at that point..."  
  
"_Al_." Sam's tone conveyed the threat as clearly as if he'd spelled it out.  
  
Al sighed. "She was calling out for someone named Sarah."  
  
"Why didn't you tell me this before?"  
  
Al waved a cigar, freshly unwrapped from the packet Tina had given him. "There's no one named Sarah at Collinwood in 1991! Besides, it got really loopy after that. She was raving about witches, and this Barnabas fellow, shouting that he's a vampire."  
  
"You're wrong," Sam said. "There is someone here named Sarah. I've talked to her."  
  
One bushy black brow lifted. "Who is she, then?"  
  
"I...don't know."  
  
Picking up on the hesitancy in Sam's voice, and putting it together with the earlier remark about ghosts, Al groaned. "I really hate this bump in the night stuff!"  
  
"Don't look at me, it wasn't my idea." Sam rubbed thoughtfully at his chin. "Is that all she said?"  
  
"Isn't it enough?" The cigar went into the side of his mouth. "Verbena knocked her out right about then. We were afraid she'd hurt herself. "Or, more to the point, hurt Sam's body. "Verbena thinks she may be delusional. Maybe that explains that walk off a cliff."  
  
Sam shook his head. "I still can't believe she'd kill herself. Besides, I saw Sarah. That wasn't a delusion."  
  
Al glanced around sharply, as if expecting something gruesome to leap out at him from the woodwork. "I do not want to hear any more about spooks and specters! This place gives me the willies, as it is."  
  
"She could see me, Al," Sam said. "The _real_ me."  
  
Looking uncomfortable, Al shrugged. "Still..."  
  
"She told me that Barnabas is her brother."  
  
Al jumped. "Now hold on just a minute. Are you trying to tell me that you think Ziggy is right? That this guy is actually the same...?"  
  
"I don't know what to think," Sam admitted. "But it bears checking out."  
  
"Wonderful." _Ziggy would love that_. Al's expression soured further; he'd have to apologize. _Again_. "If you really think I should..."  
  
A voice from the doorway derailed that uncomfortable train of thought. Both men looked around to see who had called, "Miss Winters?"  
  
A boy stood in the doorway. Nine or ten, incongruously formal in crisp tan slacks and a navy crested blazer. All that was missing was a miniature club tie, Sam thought, trying (and failing) to picture himself similarly attired at that age. He seemed to recall his mother despairing of ever getting him to church with his Sunday best intact. Of course, his brother Tom had played no small part in that...  
  
"That's David," Al informed him, reading from the 'link. "Roger Collins' son." There was a pause, then he added, under his breath, "Poor kid."  
  
Sam wondered what had occasioned the sympathy, but aloud only said, "Hello, David," and smiled at the solemn face turned up to his.  
  
"When are you going to start my lessons, again?" the boy asked.  
  
"Uh, well, I'm not sure." Sam shared a helpless look with Al, who shrugged; he didn't know either.  
  
"Don't look at _me_," he said. "_I'm_ not running this Leap."  
  
"David! There you are!" Behind the boy, a second figure appeared in the doorway.  
  
"Be still my heart." Al sighed happily, ogling the blonde's long legs, clearly displayed in a tight leather miniskirt.  
  
Sam shot him a censorious look.   
  
"What?" Al angled for a better view. "She can't hear me."  
  
The young woman was scowling at the boy. "David, I told you not to bother, Vicki. She needs her rest."  
  
"And that cute little..." Sam's withering expression caught him mid-thought, "..._lady_ is Carolyn Stoddard, Elizabeth's daughter."  
  
"But Carolyn," David whined, resisting as she pulled him out the door.  
  
She was firm, hauling him by the arm back out into the hall. "You can talk to Vicki, tomorrow." She sent him on his way, then turned an apologetic look on Sam. "Sorry about that, he got away from me."  
  
"It's okay." Sam remembered Elizabeth mentioning that Carolyn would be overseeing David until he (or, rather, Vicki), had recovered from whatever it was he was supposed to be recovering from. "I hope he isn't giving you any trouble."  
  
She shrugged. "No more than usual. How about you, how are _you_ feeling?"  
  
"Better, I think."  
  
"It's good to see you looking so well, Vicki. You really had us all worried, you know." Sam didn't know; that was the problem. Fortunately, she didn't wait for an answer. "But you're back now, and I'm sure you'll be your old self again in no time."  
  
If only you knew, Sam thought, exchanging a wry look with the Observer. Aloud, he said, "I feel guilty about your having to do my job."  
  
She laughed it off. "Oh, don't worry about that. David's actually been almost human, lately. Besides, Barnabas wouldn't like it if I let anything interfere with your recovery."  
  
Something about the way she said it raised the hackles at the nape of his neck.  
  
"Have you, uh, remembered anything?" she added, trying to sound casual and failing. "You know, about what happened to you in the past."  
  
"No." He watched her relax. What were they all so afraid Vicki would remember? And, more troubling, why were they all so convinced she had actually traveled through time? "Carolyn--"  
  
But she retreated into the hall. "Gotta run, Vicki." A strange half-smile touched her lips. "Barnabas is expecting me, and I don't want to keep him waiting."  
  
Why did that simple statement send a shiver along his backbone? More confused than ever, Sam watched her go. So did Al, but his attention was focused more on the seductive sway of her hips than on her parting words.  
  
"Do you have any idea what she was talking about?" Sam demanded, his voice shaking Al out of his almost meditative contemplation.  
  
"Don't look at me." When the physicist made a disgusted noise in his throat and moved away, Al followed. "Look, I'm not The Amazing Calavicci, I can't read minds, you know. However, if you're interested, I do have some information for you."  
  
"You have my undivided attention."  
  
Al flourished the 'link. "In the last several months, there have been at least four unsolved murders. All the victims were completely drained of their blood."  
  
Aghast, Sam stared at him. "You're not serious."  
  
"Damn serious, Sam." The Observer chewed on his cigar. "Ziggy thinks there may be a connection to this Leap."  
  
"What kind of connection?" Disturbing images were loose in Sam's mind.  
  
In Al's, too. He tapped the handlink. "Officially, the cases were never really closed. There was some suspicion directed at a local man, a retired college professor. He died under mysterious circumstances."  
  
"What exactly are 'mysterious circumstances'?"  
  
"We don't know. That's why they're mysterious. Anyway," Al continued, "apparently the murders ended with this professor's death. But he wasn't the only suspect."  
  
"Don't tell me, let me guess."  
  
"Barnabas Collins," Al said flatly.  
  
"Our Barnabas Collins?"  
  
"The one and only," Al said, then looked as if he regretted the phrasing. He shrugged in annoyance. "You know what I mean."  
  
"Do you think he did it?"  
  
Another shrug. "The police never came up with anything conclusive--and neither have we. Unless you count Vicki's assertion that the man's a vampire."  
  
It was obvious from Sam's glare that he didn't. The Observer pointed out, "No blood in the bodies, remember? It makes a kind of sick sense."  
  
"_If_ you believe in vampires," Sam said. "Which I don't."  
  
"I dunno, Sam..." Al was far less convinced. "Remember Count Bathory?"  
"No."  
"Swiss cheese..." Al muttered. He shook off the bad memories Sam obviously no longer shared. Lucky man. "Never mind."  
  
In his hand, the 'link screeched. Both men started, and Al slapped irritably at the offending device. "Damn it, Ziggy, don't _do_ that."  
  
He shot an apologetic glance at Sam. "I'd better go and see what the current crisis is."  
  
Al keyed the Door code into the link, and the glowing rectangle of blue-white light appeared beside him. "I won't be gone long. I hope." Then he stepped into the light, and vanished, taking the light with him.  
  
  
***  



	6. Chapter 6

(6)  
  
  
Collinwood faded, its gloomy interior giving way to the stark confines of the Imaging Chamber. Al blinked, orienting himself, then hurried through the narrow passageway formed by the encircling Accelerator, and down the gently sloping ramp. He surrendered the handlink to Gooshie at the central console. "All right, I'm here. What's the disaster of the hour?"  
  
The programmer's anxious gaze darted from Al to the slowly spinning orb above them. "Uh, no disaster, Admiral--not exactly. I just, uh, need to talk to you for a minute, if that's okay."  
  
Puzzled, Al frowned at him, then nodded sharply. "Fine. What's on your mind, Gooshie?"  
  
"Not here." The head programmer shot another nervous glance at Ziggy's orb, then jerked his chin in the direction of the door. "Could we, uh, go outside, sir?"  
  
"It isn't polite to talk about people behind their backs," Ziggy said, with a petulant sniff.  
  
Gooshie's broad face flushed even redder than usual, and the pleading look he turned on Al made the admiral heave a long-suffering sigh. He'd never understood why Gooshie let the computer intimidate him. No matter how sophisticated it was--and, with its neuro-cell chips and quantum processors, Ziggy was the most advanced computer on the planet--it was still just a machine. Al Calavicci didn't allow other people to intimidate him; he'd be damned if a computer was going to do it.  
  
Now, he shook his head at Gooshie's timidity and said firmly, "Nobody's talking about you, Ziggy, behind your back or otherwise. Besides, you don't have a back. And you're not exactly people, either."  
  
"Hhmph!" Ziggy's speaker clicked emphatically.  
  
Ignoring this latest fit of pique, Al herded Gooshie out into the corridor and then onto the elevator. The programmer promptly slumped in one corner of the car, jammed his hands into the pockets of his lab coat, and stared glumly at the floor. Al stood at parade rest in the opposite corner, as far from Gooshie's halitosis as the space allowed, and watched the indicator lights as the elevator toiled its way to the surface. Neither spoke, all too aware of Ziggy's ubiquitous sensors.  
  
The elevator disgorged them on the uppermost level, opening onto the cafeteria. They received only a few disinterested glances from the few people who were brave (or just hungry) enough to make use of the facilities. Al's nose wrinkled at the unappealing smell of microwaved lasagna. He'd sooner eat the cardboard container the stuff came in; it would probably taste better.  
  
At the guard station, a Marine corporal checked their I.D. badges, then logged their departure in her book before buzzing them through the thick outer door. Once upon a time security hadn't been quite so tight, but a too-close call with an escaped Visitor had taught them a hard lesson. Now it was almost as difficult to get out of the complex as it was to get in.  
  
Outside the climate-controlled confines of the Project's underground complex, the desert heat was like a sudden slap in the face, literally taking his breath away. It might be early spring in Collinsport, but it was mid-August in New Mexico and heat shimmered across the dusty landscape. In the distance, the purple outline of the Sandias danced on the horizon like a poorly-projected hologram.  
  
Already sweating, Al grimaced and fixed Gooshie with a severe look. "All right, Ziggy can't eavesdrop on us here. Care to tell me what this is all about?"  
  
"It's Ziggy." The programmer blinked uncomfortably in the bright sunlight; he was definitely not the rugged outdoors type. "I'm worried about her, Admiral. All this...supernatural stuff she's coming up with... She's not programmed to deal with that sort of thing!"  
  
"Neither am I," Al retorted, unsympathetically. He lit a fresh cigar and savored the taste; might as well get some good outta sweating his ass off.   
  
Like all government buildings, the Project was technically a smoke-free zone. Al bent the rules a bit, smoking in the confines of his own quarters or the Imaging Chamber, but the Director was well-known as a stickler for certain regulations. Al glanced at the cigar in his hand. Sam would no doubt have his head when he got back...Of course, if it'd bring Sam back, he'd gladly give up his Chivellos on the spot.  
  
He pulled his attention back to the problem at hand. "So Ziggy's hung up on spooks and specters. Tell her to stop worrying about the afterlife and get on with analyzing this Leap. Sam needs concrete information, or at least some good guesses about what he's there to change, not messages from the Twilight Zone."  
  
"That's just it," Gooshie said miserably, wringing his hands. "She won't stop thinking about all that...stuff...and I don't know how much confidence we can place in her predictions."  
  
"Exactly what are you trying to tell me?" Al demanded, sudden fear sharpening his voice. "Are you saying we can't trust her? At all?"  
  
The programmer dug the scuffed toe of one loafer into the dirt. "I'm saying I don't know, sir."  
  
"Well, can you fix it?" Al demanded, impatiently.  
  
Gooshie stared at his feet, digging the toe of his shoe deeper into the sand. "I don't know."  
  
Al froze, suddenly cold despite the blistering sun directly overhead. It was one of his more persistent nightmares--Ziggy off-line, no way for him to reach Sam, his best friend stranded in a hostile past. _Alone_.   
  
He aimed his cigar like a loaded weapon, pointed the smoldering tip at Gooshie's nose and, in the voice that had put the fear of God into ensigns throughout the Sixth Fleet, snapped, "Then find out! And do it fast, because I want this thing taken care of ASAP. Do you read me, mister?"  
  
"Yes, sir!" Gooshie came as close to 'attention' as years of physical inactivity and his stocky build would allow, and very nearly saluted. "I'll get right on it."  
  
"Good." Al lead the way back inside, his mind churning. If they lost Ziggy, they lost their only link with Sam. That was not an acceptable option, therefore Ziggy would simply have to cease this ridiculous obsession with the supernatural and get back on track. Al's jaw tightened. Maybe he should see what he could accomplish.  
  
  
  
After an hour of alternately cajoling and bullying the supercomputer, Al was forced to admit temporary defeat. Ziggy refused to listen to the voice or reason, and not even the admiral's considerable powers of persuasion would convince the machine to abandon its supernatural obsessions and concentrate on the Leap. Ziggy insisted that its theories did pertain to the Leap and it wasn't her fault they wouldn't listen to her. Lack of success had done nothing to improve Al's temper, and, at this last pronouncement, he slammed a fist down on the console. "Now you listen to me you--"  
  
"Uh, Admiral--" Gooshie interposed his body between the irate Observer and the defenseless machine. "I really wish you wouldn't do that, sir, especially not with...I mean, it's a very sensitive piece of equipment, and--"  
  
"It's an insensitive hunk of scrap iron," Al growled through tightly clenched teeth, "and I really wish you'd get it to do what it was designed to do!"  
  
"I have provided you with all the data at my disposal," Ziggy said, with a sniff. "It is up to you to make the proper use of the information."  
  
Al really wished it hadn't reminded him of that. His shoulders slumped a bit beneath the bright jacket, then squared again. Al Calavicci did not go down without a fight. "All right, Ziggy. Let's try this again..."  
  
***  
  



	7. Chapter 7

(7)  
  
  
(7)  
  
At Collinwood, dinner was a tense affair. The entire family had gathered in the formal dining room, where more Collinses peered dyspeptically down at them from the dark paneled walls. Perhaps it was the oppressive atmosphere, but dinner conversation was desultory at best.  
  
Seated between Roger and David, Sam kept his eyes on his plate and tried to pretend that he was invisible. So far, it seemed to be working; other than a single request that he pass the salt, no one had sought to engage him in conversation. Or maybe it was just that everyone had something else on their minds, tonight.  
  
Whatever the reason, he couldn't help but notice the cool looks slanting between Carolyn and Dr. Hoffman. He wondered at their apparent animosity--Vicki hadn't mentioned any ill will between the two women. But it was plain to see in every strained smile, in the oh-so-polite way they addressed each other. He knew from reading her diary that Vicki was observant; how could she not have seen it?  
  
Beside him, David fidgeted, earning himself a scowl of disapproval from his father. The boy scowled right back with what Sam thought was more bravado than genuine insolence, then relented and went back to toying listlessly with his mashed potatoes.  
  
Sam rearranged the food on his own plate. The tension at the table was enough to spoil anyone's appetite, he decided, giving David a secret, sympathetic wink. The boy looked surprised--then grinned. As if all he'd needed was a little assurance that he wasn't alone, David turned back to his plate and began to eat, if not with gusto, then at least with more enthusiasm than he had shown before.  
  
It was a relief when the meal was finally over.  
  
Everyone retired to the drawing room for drinks, except Carolyn, who escorted David up to bed, and Sam, who escaped by pleading a headache. Feeling the need for some fresh air, he went out into the gardens. The night air was crisp and cold, with a freshening breeze that promised rain. Sam took a deep, cleansing breath and let it out slowly, enjoying the relief of being alone, of being himself--in spirit if not in body.  
  
He wandered some distance from the house and, discovering a marble bench tucked into a secluded curve of the hedge, sat down to rest. Tilting his head back, he gazed up at the stars, scattered like flotsam across the black ocean of sky. A memory surfaced of the broad, star-filled skies over Elk Ridge and his father's callused hands resting on his shoulders as he named the constellations.  
  
A wave of homesickness swept over him, so strong it threatened to pull him down into despair. Slowly, he swallowed the lump in his throat and turned his gaze away from the familiar stars. No matter how far he was from home, the stars would always be there, unchanging and yet full of mystery. He looked at the great black silhouette of the house, at the moment no less mysterious, and sighed. Reluctantly, he rose to go back inside. Voices, lowered in whispered conversation, made him hesitate.  
  
One of the voices he immediately recognized as belonging to Carolyn; the other was masculine, but only vaguely familiar. A certain sultry quality in Carolyn's response hinted at the direction their conversation was taking--and started the heat rising up Sam's throat.  
  
He was no prude, but his unique intellect had left him with a great deal of intellectual achievement and rather stunted social skills. Al loved to tease him about his presumed "innocence." Of course, compared to Al's vast and varied experience, Sam was innocent, but this was one time he was just as happy not to have the Observer around to remind him of it and comment on his "farm-boy blushes." Unwilling to embarrass himself further, he shrank deeper into his niche and pretended to be a statue.  
  
An eternity crawled past, then he heard Carolyn's voice fade into the distance as she called her goodbyes to her companion and returned to the house. Sam released a breath he'd been unaware of holding, stepped from his hiding place--  
  
--and nearly collided with the dark form which seemed to materialize out of the shadows.  
  
With a startled yelp, Sam stumbled back, caught the low heel of his shoe on a crack in the paving stones, and would have fallen had it not been for the quick action of the other man, who caught Sam's arm, steadying him until he regained his balance. The move brought the figure fully into the moonlight, and Sam got his first real look at his rescuer.  
  
It was as if the portrait in the great hall had come to life. Only the clothing was different; instead of eighteenth century finery, this version of Barnabas Collins wore a conservative black suit and shirt. Sort of the anti-Al, Sam thought with a faint smile.  
  
Barnabas responded with a small smile of his own, barely lifting the corners of his mouth. Some of the wariness went out of his eyes, but his manner was diffident when he said, "You should not be out here all alone, Victoria. Particularly so soon after your...ordeal."  
  
Not sure how to respond, Sam said, "Actually, I was just going back inside."  
  
"I'll walk with you, then." Barnabas offered his arm.  
  
Seeing no graceful way to decline such a gallant gesture, Sam found himself being escorted back to the house, his hand resting lightly on Barnabas' arm. With impeccable timing, Al chose that moment to make his appearance.   
  
"My, my...Aren't we being proper ladies and gentlemen." He snickered.  
  
Sam glared at him and mouthed "Shut up." Predictably, Al ignored him.  
  
"I leave you alone for a few minutes..." The Observer shook his head in mock dismay. "And what do I find when I return? Geez, you look like you're practicing to march down the aisle together."  
  
They entered the foyer with Al humming--off-key--the Wedding March.  
  
Sam, who had perfect pitch, winced and Barnabas, thinking he had somehow caused "Victoria's" discomfort, murmured an apology. Shooting a quelling glance at the hologram, Sam said, "It's not you, Barnabas--I just have a slight headache."  
  
"Then I'll say goodnight," Barnabas said, bowing slightly over his hand. Sam was beginning to see why Vicki was so taken with the man; his old-fashioned manner would no doubt be irresistible to a romantic like Vicki.  
  
"Goodnight, Barnabas," he said, then gathered up Al with a look and retreated to the stairs. As they walked toward his room, Sam said, "So, tell me what you've got."  
His request was met with silence. Embarrassed silence, if Sam was any judge. He studied his friend's shifty expression, his heart sinking. "Tell me you've got something."  
  
What Al had was a lingering bad taste in his mouth, a pounding headache, and bad news he'd rather not inflict upon his friend. "Well you see, Sam--"  
  
The physicist closed his eyes and silently counted to ten. In a tightly controlled voice, he said, "Just. Tell. Me. _Now_."  
  
"Okay, okay!" Al raised his hands in surrender; the effect was somewhat spoiled by the handlink, flashing like Saturday night in a disco, gripped in one fist. "Calm down before you have an aneurysm or something."  
  
Sam glared at him.  
  
Al lowered his hands, then toyed sheepishly with the 'link. "Are you sure you wouldn't rather go lie down for awhile first? You do kind of look like you have a headache and--"  
  
He was forced to ignore the physicist's extremely rude response to that suggestion. "All right! As I was about to say, we're having a little problem with data retrieval, just a little glitch, nothing major. But we haven't quite got it straightened out yet. We will though. Soon." _I hope_, he didn't add aloud.  
  
Sam stared at him. "Don't tell me you haven't found anything."  
  
Al cleared his throat and looked at the handlink as if it might bite him at any moment. "Well, no, we've got...something..."  
  
"And that would be--?"  
  
The Observer shot him a 'you asked for it' look, frowned at the 'link, and began to read. "Barnabas Collins, born 1756 or '57, we're not sure, the records are a bit iffy on that one. Eldest child of Joshua and Naomi Collins. Two younger brothers, Jeremiah and Daniel... one sister, Sarah. According to a copy of the Collins family history that Ziggy dug up God only knows where, Barnabas was supposed to marry Josette duPres. But she eloped with Jeremiah, who was killed shortly afterward in a fire...no, firearms accident. Then Josette committed suicide by...throwing herself from Widow's Hill."  
  
"Just what we needed, another unhappy spirit." Al rolled his eyes. "Thanks a lot, Ziggy."  
  
Sam was staring at him as if he thought the Observer had lost his mind. "Why are you telling me all this? I don't need a history lesson, I need to know what I'm supposed to fix so I can Leap!"  
  
"I'm telling you what we've got, Sam, " Al said. He gestured with the 'link. "And what we've got is information on Barnabas Collins. Or, more likely, his ancestor."  
  
"What does Ziggy say?"  
  
"Ziggy says that there's only one Barnabas. Ziggy says that Vicki time traveled to 1790 and found out something about Barnabas that she wasn't supposed to know. Ziggy says that she found out that Barnabas is a vampire."  
  
Al grimaced and smacked the 'link with the flat of his hand. "Ziggy, not to put too fine a point on it, is nuts!"  
  
Certain that the Observer was only indulging in letting off a little steam, (dealing with the parallel hybrid computer could be frustrating at times), Sam quelled him with a look. "What we have to ask ourselves now is what is it I'm supposed to change? Obviously, I have no intention of committing suicide, so if that's really why I'm here..."   
  
Al started to speak, hesitated.  
  
Sam pounced. "What is it? You know something you're not telling me."  
  
"Just another one of Ziggy's lunatic theories."  
  
"Spit it out. "  
  
Reluctantly, Al said, "I don't know why I'm even telling you this."  
  
"Because if you don't, I'm going to kill you?" suggested Sam.  
  
"You can't." Al grinned smugly. "I'm a hologram, remember?"  
  
"I'll find a way."  
  
"Okay, just remember you asked for it." He sighed. "Ziggy thinks you may have already changed something just by being here--by taking Vicki's place."  
  
The Observer shrugged. "Ziggy figures it has something to do with Vicki's alleged trip to the eighteenth century. Like maybe she saw something nobody wants her to remember."  
  
Sam refrained from pointing out that Al didn't put any stock in Vicki's 'alleged trip,' but then neither did he. He nodded thoughtfully. "Whether it has anything to do with the eighteenth century or not, Ziggy may have a point. Since I have no memories of whatever it is that Vicki shouldn't remember, then by taking her place, I've changed history."  
  
Al sensed an unspoken "but," and leaned closer. "What is it, Sam? All of a sudden, you don't look so good."  
  
"It just occurred to me." Feeling dizzy, Sam leaned against the wall. "If that is why I'm here...How am I ever going to Leap? If Vicki comes back here, her memories will be intact."  
  
He and Al looked at each other. In unison, they groaned. "Oh, boy!"  
  
** ** ** ** **  



	8. Chapter 8

( 8 )  
  
  
Several hours later, Sam lay in Vicki's bed, trying to relax, but sleep continued to elude him. His muscles hoarded the tensions of the day and refused to relinquish them despite the gentle coaxing of his mind.  
  
Of course, his mind wasn't exactly cooperating, either. He kept running the problem of Vicki's memories through his head, hoping for a workable solution. So far, none had presented itself.  
  
So he was wide awake when he heard the sound.  
  
It was faint, just at the edge of hearing, and was followed by the soft scrape of leather on wood, as if a shoe sole had scuffed the floorboards. Across the room, the curtains stirred in the breeze. But how could that be, when he   
clearly recalled closing that window before coming to bed?  
  
Tucked under the covers up to his chin, Sam lay still and cautiously peered into the gloom of a room lit only by moonlight. Was it his imagination, or was there a dark figure silhouetted against the window?  
  
He felt his muscles tense again, this time preparing to fling him out of the bed as adrenaline flooded his bloodstream. According to Al, and to some vaguely recalled past experiences, Sam was a master of several martial arts. Unfortunately, he was in no position to make use of any of them at the moment. He forced himself to breathe normally, feigning sleep as the figure stalked silently toward the bed. A stray moonbeam briefly illuminated the figure's face, and Sam's breath caught in his throat.  
  
It was Barnabas Collins.  
  
Dressed in black, Barnabas melted into the shadows as he moved out of the light. His movements were graceful, almost feline, and soundless.  
  
What was he doing sneaking into Vicki's room in the middle of the night? If he was anticipating a tryst, he was in for a major disappointment. There was only so much Sam was willing to contemplate in the service of a Leap! He gathered himself, ready to roll from the bed and take defensive action if need be--then froze as a second figure appeared beside the bed. Sam recognized her instantly --and so did Barnabas.   
  
"Sarah!" There was surprise in the deep voice, and...hope? "You've come back--"  
  
Sadly, the ghost shook her head. "You must not do this, Barnabas."  
  
He bowed his head. "I only wanted to...to see her, Sarah. To look on her without fear of what I might see in her eyes."  
  
Sarah seemed to understand, but she said firmly, "You must go, now."  
  
With a nod, Barnabas turned on his heel, and stalked back to the open window -- where he vanished, as easily as if he were a ghost himself.  
  
Sam blinked in astonishment. What he'd just seen was impossible. But he had seen it. Hadn't he? He looked around frantically, but Sarah had disappeared, as well. He bolted upright, his heart doing a credible imitation of a jackhammer, and ran to the window.  
  
Just as he remembered, it was closed, the latch securely fastened. Feeling slightly foolish, he double-checked the mechanism, then reached out and tapped gently on the glass. It was reassuringly solid beneath his fingers. He didn't understand what had happened, but he'd seen magicians pull off more astonishing illusions and there was nothing supernatural about them.  
  
So why couldn't he stop trembling?  
  
Telling himself it was just lack of sleep, Sam crawled back under the covers, determined to get some much needed rest before he started seeing pink elephants and dancing crocodiles. He pulled the blankets up around his ears, closed his eyes...But the storm was getting closer.  
  
And it was a long time before sleep finally claimed him.  
  
  
** ** ** ** **  
  
  



	9. Chapter 9

( 9 )  
  
  
Al was trying very hard not to lose his temper, but Ziggy wasn't making it any easier for him. On the verge of shouting, he growled, "Dammit, Ziggy, I am sick and tired of this eighteenth century nonsense! Unless you want Sam to be stuck at Collinwood for the rest of his life, you'd better start giving me some answers I can use."  
  
"Admiral." For once, the computer spoke without its usual petulance. "I am fully aware of the gravity of the situation."  
  
Al started to curse under his breath, changed his mind, and cursed out loud. " Then why the hell haven't you come up with anything useful?"  
  
"May I suggest that you already have the answer you are looking for?" The computer was back to its usual spoiled self. "All you have to do is make the Visitor forget."  
  
Al turned and stared at the console. Slowly, a weary grin began to spread across his face. Clutching the handlink, he headed for the Imaging Chamber.  
  
  
  
There was the usual surge of disorientation as Ziggy locked onto Sam in the past and deposited Al's consciousness, via brainwave transmission hologram, in the same location.  
  
The first thing Al noticed was that he was outside--and in the dark. Trees thrashed barren limbs at the sky, and lightning flickered fitfully in the distance. Al shuddered; it looked like the backdrop from every Hammer horror ever produced. He unconsciously tightened his grip on the handlink, his lifeline to the Project, and looked around for...  
  
_"Sam!"  
_  
Not appearing to hear the Observer's panicked yelp, or even to see him, Sam walked on--straight for a rocky outcropping and the precipitous drop to the ocean below.  
  
"Sam?" Al tried again. "Can you hear me, Sam?"  
  
Yelling his friend's name, Al dove past him, trying without success to block Sam's path with his own, unfortunately insubstantial, body. Sam walked through him without so much as a blink of acknowledgment. "C'mon, this isn't funny, Sam!"  
  
Giving up on trying to get through to Sam, the Observer called urgently, "Ziggy, what's wrong with Sam?"  
  
The handlink squealed and the multicolored lights flashed faster, but the Observer wasn't looking. Instead, he ran after Sam, again interposing himself between Sam and the cliff. For all the good it'd do, Al thought, frantic in   
his helplessness. If he didn't snap out of it soon, Sam was going to go for a very cold, very brief swim.  
  
Al could hear the waves breaking on the rocks below. It was only too easy to imagine Sam's borrowed body doing the same. "Ziggy!"   
  
He started to thump the 'link, then realized it was flashing wildly, trying to tell him something. Dancing backward, keeping himself between Sam and the fatal drop, Al tried to read with one eye while keeping the other firmly on Sam.  
  
The edge was getting closer all the time.  
  
Analyzing Sam's brain waves, Ziggy had determined that its creator was experiencing some sort of altered state.  
  
"Tell me something I don't know," Al muttered darkly. Sometimes, Ziggy's grasp of the obvious was beyond infuriating. He thumped the 'link. "Tell me what to do about it, you billion dollar heap of scrap metal!"  
  
The handlink let out an indignant squeal.  
  
Out of the corner of one eye, Al saw Sam flinch. Just for a second, something had gotten through to him.  
  
Immediately, Al hit the 'link again--hard. This time, the 'link let out a piercing shriek that probably deafened any low-flying bats in the area. Al winced, but smacked the instrument, once more. The noise it produced this time   
was loud enough to wake the dead.  
  
It certainly woke Sam, who stumbled to a halt, inches from doom, and stood swaying drunkenly. He blinked at Al without comprehension. Al passed a long, anxious moment until the dazed look faded from Sam's eyes and he focused on the Observer.   
  
Sam winced.  
  
Al looked down. He was "standing" on thin air, hovering about a foot and a half from solid ground. Muttering to himself, he strode to shore.  
  
Sam didn't really notice. It had suddenly dawned on him that he was teetering on the crumbling edge of a very long drop, and it was taking every ounce of concentration he possessed to maintain his precarious balance. He looked down at crashing gray breakers, jagged rocks protruding like hungry teeth from the surf, and gulped. His stomach lurched, and he squeezed his eyes shut. He shuddered convulsively, only partially from the biting cold.  
  
_God, he _hated_ heights.  
_  
Al's gravely voice, yelling advice, was little more than a distant distraction as Sam swallowed hard and slid his left foot back, careful not to lose his balance. Then, gingerly shifting his weight, the other foot. One halting step at a time, he backed away from the edge. The rock was worn smooth from centuries of weathering. Sam's bare feet were slick with nervous sweat. So what happened next was inevitable.  
  
His right foot slipped from under him, sending him reeling. Sam's eyes popped open as he flailed his arms frantically, trying to at least fall back or to one side--anywhere but out into the yawning emptiness before him.  
  
"Sam!" The panic in Al's voice matched that racing in icy currents through Sam's veins. Eternity stared him in the face.  
  
Then--impossibly--strong arms enveloped him, drawing him back from the brink. Al's yell blended with the smoothly accented voice of Sam's rescuer, as they called his name in unison.   
  
_"Sam--"   
  
"Victoria!"_  
  
"--are you all right?" Al finished, appearing beside him. He peered curiously at Sam's rescuer.  
  
Trembling with reaction, Sam righted himself, pushing gently but firmly away from Barnabas, who released him reluctantly. The wind sliced through Sam's thin attire like a knife of ice. "I'm okay," he said, simultaneously reassuring his friend and answering the unspoken question in Barnabas' eyes. Neither man looked particularly convinced. Sam didn't blame them; his teeth were chattering so hard it was difficult to speak. He started to say more--and was interrupted by the piercing shriek which rattled the air around them.  
  
Too loud to be the wind or the waves, it rose quickly in pitch until it rivaled Ziggy's earlier performance. But, judging form the look Al was directing at him, Sam doubted the noise was coming from the computer. Beside him, Barnabas hissed, "_Angelique_."  
  
Eyes darting, Sam searched the darkness for the source of the strange sound. He found nothing. Al shrugged, gesturing helplessly with the handlink. He didn't know, either.  
  
"What the heck's going on here?" Sam murmured under his breath. The icy wind had picked up again, tossing Victoria's long hair into his face. Impatiently, he brushed it back, and turned back to Barnabas.  
  
The man's expression sent a fresh chill stabbing into the base of Sam's spine. He blinked. Surely it was only a trick of the light that made Barnabas' eyes appear to glow scarlet with hatred. The other man turned away for a moment; when their gazes met again, Barnabas' had lost that feral fire. His eyes still burned, but now they were reassuringly human.  
  
Sam shook himself. Well, of course, Barnabas' eyes were human--what else would they be?   
  
Seeing Sam's involuntary shiver, Barnabas said, "You must be freezing." A glance took in the long nightgown and bare feet. "You aren't exactly dressed for a stroll on the cliffs. I'll escort you back to the house."  
  
As he spoke, Barnabas shrugged out of his heavy wool coat and draped it about Sam's shoulders. "What were you doing out here at this time of night, anyway?"  
  
Apart from freezing his, er, assets off, Sam wasn't sure. At least the strange, banshee-like wail had temporarily taken his mind off the cold. Pulling the coat tightly around his body, he said, "What on Earth was that, anyway? I've never heard anything like it."  
  
Barnabas' hesitation was barely noticeable. "Nothing, I'm sure. The wind perhaps."  
  
Floating alongside, Al snorted. "'Wind', my a-- "  
  
Sam shot him a quelling glance, and the Observer substituted, "--Aunt Fanny," without missing a beat. "Who's he kidding? If that was nothing, I'm a cloistered monk."  
  
Despite the circumstances, Sam had to chuckle at the unlikely idea of Al as any sort of monk, cloistered or otherwise. He smothered the faintly hysterical sound behind his hand, and tried unsuccessfully to imitate the hologram, walking without his feet touching the ground; the cold penetrated to the bone, and his bare feet ached all the way up to the ankles.  
  
"Victoria, are you all right?"   
  
Sobering quickly, Sam said, "It's nothing. The cold--Next time I decide to go for a sleepwalk, I'll have to remember to wear my shoes."  
  
Before Sam could protest, Barnabas had swept him up as easily as he might a child. Al snickered at the incongruous sight, but Sam was past caring. He was still cold, but his feet no longer felt as if they might fall off at any moment, and Barnabas broad chest provided some measure of shelter from the wind. He huddled deeper in the thick folds of the coat, and tried not to think too much about what had almost just happened.  
  
All Sam really wanted was to get back to the relative safety of his--Vicki's-- room. Just how safe that actually _was_ was debatable; since his arrival, Vicki's bedroom had seen about as much traffic as Grand Central Station, some of it of a decidedly otherworldly variety. He distinctly remembered watching Barnabas vanish into thin air. Unless..._Had_ it been a dream? At this point, Sam wasn't ready to rule anything out. What, for example, had he been doing almost going for a late night stroll over the edge of a cliff?  
  
His last lucid memory was of the deep breathing exercises he'd used to finally calm himself to sleep. Next thing he knew, Al was shouting at him and he'd been on the verge of taking a dive. Literally. He clutched the heavy folds of the coat more tightly about himself and fought back the shivers. Not all of them were from the cold, even though there was a distinctly Arctic feel in the air.  
  
Al was being unusually quiet, studying the flickering patterns on the handlink, his heavy brows knitted as he considered the information. Sam wanted to talk to him, but first he had to get rid of his solicitous escort. Glancing up from his study, Al said, "Good, we're here."  
  
With a start, Sam realized his friend was right. They were at Collinwood's front door. He'd been so absorbed in his own muddled thoughts, he'd paid little attention to his surroundings. Barnabas set him gently on his feet and   
Sam said, awkwardly, "Barnabas...Thank you. You saved my life."  
  
Barnabas accepted Sam's gratitude with a slight bow. He retrieved his coat, though he didn't seem to have suffered without it. His breath barely frosted the air. "I am honored to have been of service. Sleep well, Victoria."  
  
An indignant Al squawked, "Hey, I helped too!"  
  
A shrill burst from the 'link split the air, and he hastily amended, "Yeah, yeah, Ziggy. You helped too. Sam knows that."  
  
Sam shook his head. He knew that Barnabas had said something during all that, but he'd have been hard pressed to say what. Fortunately, Barnabas didn't seem to expect an answer; he bade Sam good night, then faded back into the darkness.  
Relieved, Sam gathered Al with a look, and retreated to his bedroom.  
  
"Do you have any idea what the heck just happened to me?" he demanded, shutting and locking the door firmly behind him.  
  
Only halfway through the door, Al paused in mid stride. His brows arched in surprise. "You almost took a stroll off a cliff. Don't you remember?"  
  
"Yeah, but why?" Sam collapsed onto the bed and glared at the ceiling. It came to him again: the image of the surf pummeling the rocks, so far away and yet too close. His stomach did a nauseating back-flip.  
  
He _hated_ heights.  
  
He opened his eyes to see Al watching him with a knowing smirk. Former navy pilot, former astronaut, Al Calavicci was more at home far above the surface of the Earth than on it. Unlike Sam, who was a firm believer in keeping both feet solidly on the ground.  
  
He glared at his friend. "Does Ziggy have any ideas about my, uh, after hours excursion?"  
  
Al consulted the handlink. "Ziggy doesn't know what to make of it." The cigar shifted from one corner of his mouth to the other. He talked around it with the facility of long practice. "You were never a sleepwalker, not even as a child, according to your records."  
  
"I can't remember anything..." Before his first Leap, there had never been anything Sam couldn't remember. Now, he had a photographic memory with holes in the negative. It was intensely frustrating.  
  
"Hypnosis?" Al suggested, dubiously.  
  
"I don't think so," Sam said.   
  
Simultaneously, the 'link responded: _Unlikely_.  
  
The lights on the 'link flashed, giving it the appearance of a self-lit box of half-melted Jujubes. Al bent an eye to the data stream. The computer began running a steady flow of facts and opinions past him, often so quickly it was   
difficult to tell one from the other. Al glanced up to find Sam watching him expectantly.  
  
"Well, the good news is that Ziggy doesn't think you're a likely candidate for disassociative disorders, despite all this Leaping about."  
  
"How nice of him."  
  
The handlink beeped. "Ziggy says, and I quote, 'However, Dr. Beckett may be suffering from prolonged stress, resulting in reduced mental capacity, diminished vigilance, and fatigue.' End quote."  
  
"Great," Sam said, rolling his eyes. "I'm being psychoanalyzed by a computer."  
  
"Welcome to my world." Al directed his next question to the computer. "So what does that leave us with?"  
  
Ziggy's response was as prompt as it was startling.  
  
"What?" Sam demanded, staring at Al staring at the link. "What did he say?"  
  
"He, uh, says you..." Al fell silent and studied the 'link some more as if daring it to repeat whatever unimaginable thing it had just said. It did, and he gave it a thump. "Ziggy, in his near-infinite wisdom and quantum insanity,   
thinks you were under some sort of...spell."  
  
"Spell."  
  
"Hey, don't look at me, _I_ didn't say it," Al said, defensively. He gave the 'link a rough shake. "That parallel, hybrid hunk of--"  
  
Sam waved off the rest of the insult; now wasn't the time to berate Ziggy. Arching an eyebrow, he asked, "Doesn't he have any alternatives to offer?"  
  
"No, not really." Al looked thoughtful, then added, "Unless you'd consider demonic possession as an alternative."  
  
"I don't think so," Sam said. "I think I'd have noticed if my head started spinning around backward."  
  
"Not _you_," Al said acerbically. "_Ziggy_."  
  
Sam scrubbed his face with his palms. "Whatever it was, it's gone now."  
  
"Let's hope so," Al said. "I don't want you taking any more unscheduled, midnight walking tours."  
  
Neither did Sam. "I'd love to Leap out of here right now." He hugged himself. "But if Vicki returns, what's to prevent the same thing from happening to her?"  
  
"Maybe it already did," Al said, looking thoughtful. "In the original history. What if that's what really happened, not suicide."  
  
Sam collapsed wearily onto the bed. He suddenly felt oddly distanced from his surroundings, as if whatever force bound him to this body had been somehow weakened. With some difficulty, he focused on Al. "If that's so, why haven't I Leaped?"  
  
Something in Sam's voice made the Observer take a closer look at him. "Sam?"  
Al's voice was uncharacteristically soft as he finally realized the depth of Sam's distress. "It's okay now, Sam. You're safe."  
  
Sam just looked at him, and shivered.  
  
"I know you're pretty shook up," Al said. "Hell, it scared about ten years off _my_ life. But it's all over and you're okay."  
  
"And if it happens again?" Sam drew his knees up and hugged them to his chest.  
  
Al's jaw tightened. "Well, it's not _gonna_ happen again, because I'm going to stay right here until morning and make damn sure it doesn't."  
  
That finally elicited a smile. "An admiral pulling sentry duty?"  
  
Al shrugged nonchalantly. "I wouldn't for just anybody, you know." He marched to the foot of the bed, and ordered sternly, "Now, get some sleep. You look like something the cat wouldn't drag in on a bet."  
  
"Gee, thanks."  
  
"I mean it, Sam. You're on your last legs." Al's stern expression softened. "Don't worry. Ziggy and I will be right here if you need us."  
  
Sam started to protest--he was a big boy now, and didn't need a babysitter--but the image of that treacherous drop loomed large again, and he shuddered.   
  
"Okay," he said, and crawled meekly under the covers. With the blankets up around his ears, he looked at Al. The Observer had the air of one entrenched for the duration. "Thanks, Al."  
  
Embarrassed, the Observer waved off the gratitude. "Go to sleep, Sam."  
  
The physicist was already succumbing to post-traumatic fatigue as the adrenaline left his system. Cocooned beneath the covers, his face half buried in the pillow, he mumbled, "G'night."   
  
Standing guard at the foot of the bed, ready to hold off the legions of darkness if necessary, the Observer sighed. "Good night, Sam."  
  
  
** ** ** **  



	10. Chapter 10

(10 )  
  
  
Slanting across his face, a ray of morning sunlight woke him. Sam groaned, rolling away from the light, unwilling as yet to face another day at Collinwood. He would have snuggled deeper under the covers and gone back to uneasy dreams, but a familiar raspy voice prodded him awake. "Rise and shine, Sam."  
  
Reluctantly, Sam opened his eyes, and with another groan, sat up. "I'll rise, but I refuse to shine."  
  
"Whatever happened to up at dawn, feed the chickens, milk the cows?" Al teased, grinning around a freshly lit cigar. For someone who had pulled all night guard duty, he seemed remarkably fresh. Sam wanted to hit him.  
  
"Oddly enough, when I was doing all that back on the farm, I'd never just tried to walk off a cliff the night before," Sam said caustically. He yawned mightily, then added, "I had the weirdest dreams..."  
  
Eyebrows raised, Al waited to be enlightened. But Sam hesitated. It had been a strange, stressful night; it was perfectly natural that he had dreamed, and that Barnabas Collins had played a major role in those dreams. Wasn't it?  
  
"It's nothing." He shrugged, shook his head ruefully. "You know how dreams are. Nonsense."  
  
"If you say so." For once, Al wasn't inclined to push. "While you were getting your beauty rest, Ziggy and I have been busy."  
  
Sam snorted. "Beauty rest? Hah!" With the night he'd spent, it was a minor miracle he hadn't awoken with gray hair.  
  
Frowning, Al lowered the 'link. "Sure you don't want to talk about it?"  
  
"I'm sure." Sam suppressed a shudder. Nightmares....  
  
Al studied him for a long moment more, then turned his attention back to the tiny screen. "We've found out a bit more about Vicki."  
  
"Great." Sam yawned again. "Anything helpful?"  
  
"That part is still up for debate," Al admitted, waving the handlink. "We--"  
  
Unable to help himself, Sam had yawned right in the middle of Al's sentence. He offered an apologetic smile. "Sorry."  
  
"Am I boring you?" Al asked, lowering the 'link. "I could be having breakfast with Tina right about now, you know. Instead, I spent the night with a computer, burning the midnight oil and listening to you snore."  
  
"I do not snore," Sam said, with dignity.  
  
"Yes, you do." Al adjusted his jacket, paying particular attention to getting the lapels straight, then shot his cuffs. "Like a buzzsaw."  
  
Sam opened his mouth to protest the slur, then thought better of it. "So what did you find?"  
  
"A birth certificate."  
  
"How--?"  
  
Al waved one hand in an airy gesture of dismissal. "One thing led to another and...viola!"  
  
"So you know who her parents are? I mean, were." Sam looked confused. "You said she's an orphan."  
  
"Her father is dead, at least according to the birth certificate," Al said. "But her mother is alive and well and living in Collinsport."  
  
He looked suddenly angry, outraged on Vicki's behalf. "Living here, as a matter of fact."  
  
"At Collinwo--Not _Elizabeth?"_  
  
"None other." Al's dark eyes glinted with contained fire. "Living in the lap of luxury while her poor kid struggles along, not even knowing who she really is..."  
  
"But what can I do about it?" Sam asked. "_I_ can't confront Elizabeth." After all, how could Vicki have learned the truth? He had to stay "in character." It made him think, though. How could Vicki learn the truth? He couldn't leave her a note, and an entry in her journal would only have her wondering if she'd developed multiple personalities.  
  
"Earth to Dr. Beckett."  
  
Sam started at the hologram's shout. "What?"  
  
"You were off in the ozone," the Observer complained.   
  
"I was thinking about Vicki," Sam said. "There has to be some way to let her know the truth."  
  
"Well, we can't just tell her," Al said, then corrected himself, "Okay, we could just tell her, but it wouldn't do a lot of good. She'd just forget when she Leaped back."  
  
"So what we really need is a way to convince Elizabeth to tell Vicki."  
  
"I'll put Ziggy on it," Al said, "but don't hold your breath. He's still pretty wound up in all this Barnabas-Collins-is-a-vampire stuff."  
  
The mention of Barnabas' name recalled to Sam's mind his uneasy dreams and all the questions surrounding Barnabas. Why had he come into Vicki's room last night? What had he been planning? And how had he conveniently turned up at Widow's Hill in time to stop Sam from going over the edge? Could he have been   
following "Vicki"--Indeed, could he have been responsible for Sam being there in the first place?  
  
"Has Ziggy found out anything more about Barnabas?" he asked, shaking his head to dispel the disturbing images. "Besides the vampire stuff, I mean."  
  
"As far as Ziggy is concerned, he's told us everything we need to know," Al said. "He keeps throwing Occam's Razor at us."  
  
_The simplest solution is usually the correct one._ Sam nodded. "I keep hoping someone will come up with a simpler solution."  
  
"If I think of one, you'll be the first to know," Al promised. "In the meantime, do we proceed with the hypothesis that there's only one Barnabas Collins and we've got 'im?"  
  
Sam had hoped to avoid that question. He sighed. "He was here last night, Al. Crept in through the window."  
  
"He what?" Al snatched the cigar from his mouth and jabbed it at Sam. "And you didn't tell me?"  
  
Heaving another sigh, Sam got up and began to pace. "It happened last night, before I went for a walk and nearly...well, you now. To tell you the truth, I've been trying to decide whether or not I dreamed the whole thing."  
  
"Sam," Al hesitated, unsure how to proceed. Finally, he blurted, "What if Barnabas is responsible for what happened last night? What if he's the one trying to kill Vicki?"  
  
The same thoughts had occurred to Sam. "I don't know, Al. Did he do it?"  
  
Narrowing his eyes, Al shrugged. "All we have is circumstantial evidence, and damn little of that. Ziggy hasn't turned up anything that would prove it one way or the other." He gave the handlink an amiable swat. "On the other hand, the guy definitely gives me the creeps."  
  
In a soft voice, Sam whispered, "Me, too."  
  
  
** ** ** **  
  



	11. Chapter 11

(11)  
  
  
After all that had happened, Al was reluctant to leave Sam to fend for himself at Collinwood. So he tagged along as the scientist headed downstairs in search of breakfast. They found Mrs. Johnson in the cavernous kitchen, loading the everyday china into an industrial dishwasher.   
  
"Good-morning," she said, wiping her hands on her apron. "I saved you a plate -- in the warmer."  
  
Following her gesture, Sam located the warming oven and extracted a plate loaded with blueberry pancakes, crisp-brown sausage links, and scrambled eggs. He carried it over to the table and sat down. Mrs. Johnson appeared a moment later with a pitcher of milk and a container of maple syrup.  
  
"If you need anything else, you just ask," she said, pouring him a glass of milk. "There's orange juice--fresh squeezed--if you want."  
  
"This is fine." Son of a dairy farmer, Sam had long-ago acquired the habit of drinking milk with his meals. Of course, this milk hadn't come fresh and creamy from the barn. But in some small way, it was a reminder of home. He emptied the glass.  
  
Mrs. Johnson smiled and left the pitcher for him.  
  
Using the 'link to adjust his interface with Sam's reality, Al perched on the table, and eyed the pancakes hungrily. His stomach grumbled a comment.  
  
Sam grinned, and swallowed with relish. "It is good."  
  
"Thank you." Mrs. Johnson reappeared, beaming at the compliment. "It was my mother's recipe. They're Willie's favorite meal, blueberry flapjacks and sausage." She sighed and shook her head. "Poor Willie..."  
  
Sam looked to Al for guidance. The Observer consulted the 'link. "Her nephew. Works for...oh, perfect. He works for Barnabas Collins."  
  
"Is...something wrong with Willie?" Sam asked cautiously.  
  
Mrs. Johnson gathered herself. "No, he's fine, I'm sure. It's just...Well, you remember how he was, of course. Before Mr. Collins took him on." She sighed again. "I'm just being silly, I know, but sometimes...I can't help worrying about him, still. If Willie should lose his position...I just don't know what he'd do. Mr. Collins--Roger, I mean--certainly wouldn't welcome him back here."  
  
Sam fumbled for an appropriate response. "Uh, I'm sure...Willie will be fine."  
  
"Yes." Mrs. Johnson gave Sam a smile. "I'm sure he will be. He's been so much better..."  
  
She went back to her dishes, and Al, tilting down to speak into Sam's ear, offered conspiratorially, "Yeah, I'll bet ol' Barney keeps him on his toes."  
  
Sam said nothing. But he had to admit, if only to himself, that he was glad he wasn't in Willie's shoes.  
  
After he'd finished eating, Sam and Al strolled outside, into the gardens. The sky was a washed out gray and there was a briskness to the air that made Sam glad of his thick wool sweater. He paused beside a cherub fountain and inhaled the crisp, rain washed air. A faint smile touched his lips. "You know, there has been one good thing about this Leap."  
  
"Oh?" Al cocked an eyebrow, anxious to be enlightened. "What's that?"  
  
"We haven't had to hide out even once in a bathroom so we can talk."  
  
Since usually only Sam could see or hear Al, he was frequently forced into hiding in order to carry on a conversation with the Observer without seeming to be talking to himself...or worse. The most usual hiding place, unfortunately, generally turned out to be a bathroom of one form or another. And some forms were definitely better than others.  
  
Al shared the lopsided smile. "Small favors, eh?"  
  
"_Al."_ Sam was whispering, like a bird watcher afraid he'd startle a rare finch. He pointed. "Look."  
  
"What?" Al peeped over the hedges. "Oh."  
  
Near the edge of the stone flagged path, a little girl stood solemnly watching them.   
  
"Sarah," Sam breathed, edging forward cautiously. "Can you see her, Al?"  
  
"Yes," the Observer said, unhappily. "This is the, uh, ghost, right?"  
  
"Right."  
  
"Imagine my joy."  
  
Sam didn't respond right away; he was intent on approaching Sarah. As before, she was dressed in a white muslin gown that reached to her ankles and a lace cap over her strawberry blonde curls. As Sam came closer, she backed away, beckoning him to follow her.   
  
"What is it, Sarah?" he asked, his voice hushed. "What do you want?"  
  
"Why do I suddenly feel like I'm in an episode of Lassie?" Al asked of no one in particular. Sam shot him an annoyed look, but Sarah stopped, her attention turning to the hologram.  
  
"Who are you?" she asked, staring at Al in wide eyed astonishment.   
  
No less astonished, the Observer stared back at her. "You can see me?"  
  
"Of course, I can see you," she said, as if the answer should have been self-evident. The 'link caught her eye, and she reached out to touch it. Her hand passed through the hologram, and she started. "Oh!"  
  
Al looked equally startled, as if he'd expected a ghost to be able to make contact with his own insubstantial form. Sarah turned back to Sam, reached out. Her hand on his was warm, solid. Both men stared at the girl, her small hand holding Sam's.  
  
"You're not a ghost," Sam said, quietly. Her hand was solid, real. Flesh and bone. "You're real, alive..."  
  
"I don't think so, Sam, " the Observer said dubiously, waving the 'link. "Ziggy says that Sarah Collins definitely...died. In 1790. He says there's a gravestone in the family cemetery and everything."  
  
The girl's bright blue eyes tracked from one confused adult face to the other. "I went away," she said. "But I came back."  
  
"Why, Sarah? Why did you come back?" Sam asked.  
  
"Because he needed me. I had to come back."  
  
The men exchanged glances. "Who needed you, Sarah?" Al asked, then rolled his eyes. "I don't believe this...I'm talking to a ghost!"  
  
Ignoring the question, Sarah skipped a few steps, holding her skirts. "Come with me, Sam. I have something to show you. Something important."  
  
Before Sam could press for details, she was flitting quickly across the lawn. The scientist ran after her.  
  
Al yelped for him to wait, but the physicist was already gone, paying no heed to his friend's shout. Grumbling, Al stabbed one blunt finger at the handlink's tiny control pad. "Gooshie, center me on Sam--and hurry!"  
  
There was the usual brief "blip" in reality, and Al popped back into view beside Sam, who stood contemplating a dilapidated wooden shack. It looked like a gardener's shed or something, thought Al, a former inner city kid who didn't know beans about horticulture. He turned to ask the Indiana farm boy--and noticed the ghost, standing in front of the closed door of the shack. She beckoned insistently, then turned and glided through the door as easily   
as Al might have done, had he been so inclined, which he wasn't.  
  
At this indisputable proof that the little girl was indeed a spirit, Al yelped and fell back a step. But Sam reached for the door, opened it, and looked back inquiringly at his friend. "Uh-uh," the Observer said firmly. "No way, Sam.   
If you think for one minute that I'm gonna follow some spook into--Sam!"  
  
Ignoring Al in the certain knowledge that the Observer would brave an entire haunted house full of ghosts before he'd let Sam confront them on his own, Sam forged ahead. Al cursed loudly--and followed at his heels.   
  
The interior of the shack was even less inspiring than the outside had been. To Al's unhappy eyes it resembled nothing so much as the set from a low-budget horror show. "Look at this junk, will you?"  
  
He waved his cigar at the center of the cramped space, where someone had been redecorating in Early Weird. On the plank flooring, they had drawn a chalk circle and, within the circle, a star. Fat black candles sat at each of   
the star's five points. Mystic-looking symbols and dried bits of herbs were scattered across the circle, making it look like the kitchen floor of a particularly messy cook. Al doubted that any of the herbs were as harmless as   
oregano.   
  
"I don't like this, Sam," he said. "This is...Well, quite frankly, I don't know what the hell this is, but I don't think it's a new method for getting bigger roses."  
  
Kneeling, Sam examined the strange runes. He picked up some of the herb material, then rubbed his fingers together, crushing the dried plants. He sniffed, made a face. "Bitter."  
  
"Uh, Sam..." There was a nervous edge to the Observer's voice. "Ziggy says all this looks like...uh, like black magic. Or something." With anxious eyes, he scanned the shadowy corners. "Maybe we should get out of here."  
  
"Sarah wanted us to see this." Sam stared thoughtfully at the circle. "It must mean something."  
  
"Yeah, it means somebody around here has a seriously strange hobby," Al opined sharply. "And I do not want to be here when they come back to play."  
  
As Sam started to his feet, there was a series of rapid pops--tiny bursts of displaced air as the candles lit themselves. "Oh, boy..."  
  
He backed away, toward the door--which slammed shut with a decidedly ominous finality.  
  
"Uh-oh." Al waved his arms wildly, urging Sam to hurry. "You've got to get out of here, Sam. Now."  
  
That sounded like good advice to Sam. He lunged for the door, grabbed the rusted knob, and pulled. But as ramshackle as the shack appeared, it must have been surprisingly well constructed. The door wouldn't budge.  
  
"Come on, Sam, " Al urged, tensely. "Put some muscle into it. Kick it down!"  
  
Kick it...? Oh, right. Taking a deep breath, Sam centered himself, gathering his _chi_, then launched a furious kick at the stubborn door.  
  
He'd timed it perfectly; his foot struck the exact center of the door--and the impact knocked him on his butt. Flat on his back, he lay there, stunned, and blinked up at the Observer.  
  
"What the hell happened?" Al demanded.  
  
"It felt like hitting a brick wall," Sam said, breathlessly. With a groan, he struggled to his feet. Tentatively, he reached toward the door...and cried out in shock and pain as his fingers encountered some kind of invisible barrier. Cradling his hand, he said, "There's something...Can Ziggy detect it?"  
  
The link moaned unhappily. Al shook his head. "There's some kind of distortion. We can't get a clear reading."  
  
The Observer poked his head through the door,(the barrier, or whatever it was, didn't seem to affect him), and reported, "There's nothing I can see, but..."  
  
"What is it?" Sam reached automatically for Al's shoulder to pull him back inside; naturally, his hand passed right through the hologram's insubstantial form. "What do you see?"  
  
Popping back into the room, Al consulted the handlink. He ignored the question. "Sam, look for something that belongs to Vicki, a scarf or a piece of jewelry, anything."  
  
Dutifully, Sam scoured the room. It was empty of furnishings, the only decor was the strange circle on the floor. Kneeling, he carefully brushed away the plant material to reveal a small metal object. He held up the music box. "Will this do?"  
  
"We'll see." Al consulted the link, again. "Okay, here's what I want you to do. Snuff out the candles." He looked up to find the scientist staring at him. "Hurry, Sam."  
  
Wearing a dubious frown, Sam obeyed. The Observer nodded encouragingly. "Good. Now scatter the herbs outside the circle, get as much of them out as you can. Quickly, Sam."  
  
Muttering to himself, Sam did as instructed. "Now what?"  
  
"Ziggy says to erase the symbols around the edge of the circle, scuff them out. But don't break the circle!" Al watched as Sam worked, then said, "Now place the music box in the center of the circle. Okay, now you have to redraw the pentagram so that it's right side up. If you do that--"  
  
"Wait," said Sam. "How do you know it's inverted? It's on the floor."  
  
"I don't know," Al said, impatiently. "I'm just taking Ziggy's word for it and I suggest you do, too. Now will you hurry up and redraw the--"  
  
"How am I supposed to do that? I don't have anything to draw it with!"  
  
Checking with the computer, Al said, "Ziggy says it should be enough if you just pantomime drawing it, go through the motions. As long as it's clear in your mind that that's what you're doing, it should work."  
  
Skeptically, Sam lightly traced the star, just touching the chalk lines with his index finger, visualizing the pentagram so that its apex was pointed in the opposite direction. He finished, raised an eyebrow, and glanced at Al. "Well? Did it work?"  
  
"Try the door," Al suggested, with a wave of his cigar.  
  
But before Sam reached the door, wild laughter filled the close confines of the shack. Both men froze, staring at one another in shock. It was the same voice, the one they had heard on Widow's Hill.  
  
_"Non, non, ma petit!"_ The voice seemed to come from every direction. "You do not escape me so easily this time. _Vous avez affaire a un ennemi redoubtable."  
_  
_A 'redoubtable enemy,' indeed,_ Sam thought as the voice trailed off into more high-pitched shrieks of laughter. From nowhere, a fierce wind sprang up, blinding him. The force of the wind shoved him into the wall. "Al!"  
  
"Right here, Sam!" The Observer's welcome rasp was reassuringly close. "Right here!"  
  
"What's happening?" Sam had to shout to make himself heard above the howling of the wind.   
  
"Don't ask me," Al yelled. As a hologram, he was untouched by the maelstrom. "Can you make it to the door?"  
  
Hugging the wall, one hand shielding his face, and following Al's voice, Sam fought his way back to the door. Without Al to guide him, Sam would've been lost, despite the small size of the shack. The unnatural wind pummeled him, tore at his hair and his clothes, threatened to force him to his knees.  
  
Waving the flashing link like a beacon, the Observer led the way, alternately cheering and haranguing Sam until he'd fought his way to the door. "Come on, Sam! Just a little further!"  
  
At last, Sam's outstretched fingers brushed the worm-eaten wood of the door. He felt like cheering. Instead, he threw his shoulder into it as hard as he could. The anticipated resistance failed to materialize, and Sam went sailing through the opening to land in a bruised tangle of limbs on the grass.  
  
"Sam!" Al peered down at him with concern. "Are you all right?"  
  
Groaning, the physicist sat up and surveyed the damage. The freak wind had dissipated as quickly and inexplicably as it had arisen.   
  
"I'm okay," he mumbled unconvincingly, as he got slowly to his feet. He hurt all over. Limping slightly, he went to the shack and cautiously peered inside. But it offered no clues as to what had just happened. "Al? Am I losing my mind?"  
  
"If you are," the Observer said blandly; "You're in good company. Even Ziggy saw it this time."  
  
Sam's smile was wry. "Of course, we're all linked, so it could just have been a shared hallucination."  
  
The link squealed. Grinning, Al translated, "Ziggy says he does not hallucinate, and he's worried that you would even suggest it. He wants to know if you hit your head."  
  
"Tell Ziggy--" Sam began caustically, then thought better of it. He was allowing himself to be baited by a computer--_his_ computer, his brain child. Suddenly, he felt very tired. "I have a headache."  
  
Instantly Al was all concern. "You didn't really get hit on the head, did you? Maybe you should let that doctor have a look at you."  
  
"I did not get hit on the head!" Sam fended him off with a scowl. "I just starred in the twister scene from The Wizard of Oz! I'm entitled to a headache!"  
  
Sam's voice was heavy with sarcasm and verging on a shout, but Al overlooked it; the kid was under a lot of stress. He said gently, "Why don't we go back to the house, now."  
  
"Good idea. Maybe I can crawl under the bed and not come out until this particular nightmare is over."  
  
"That's defeatist talk, Sam," Al scolded. "It's not like you."  
  
"Has Ziggy made any new predictions based on..." A gesture took in their surroundings. "...all this."  
  
Al obediently tapped the link's keys. He waited a beat, reading, then both dark brows shot up. "You're in luck. Ziggy now says there's a 69% probability that all we have to do is take care of the memory problem and you'll Leap."  
  
Sixty-nine percent was pretty low, but Sam was in no mood to quibble. "And how does he suggest we do that?"  
  
"Well, we have an idea about that, actually." Quickly, Al filled him in on his plan. "Verbena can alter Vicki's memory, so she doesn't recall whatever it is that she shouldn't. Then Vicki can safely return home and you can Leap."  
  
"I don't know..." Sam looked uneasy. "I don't like the idea of tampering with someone's mind."  
  
Al snorted softly. Gently, he reminded Sam, "You may not like it, but you do it every time you Leap. Besides, Ziggy says this may be your only ticket outta this loony bin. And it's a sure bet Vicki would like to get back to her   
own body."  
  
"Wouldn't we all?" Sam sighed. "Okay. But only if Vicki agrees."  
  
The Observer gaped at him. "Do you have any idea what you're asking, here? This woman has been through a lot, Sam. She's on edge, recovering from heavy sedation...Hell, at this point, I don't know if she's capable of making that kind of decision."  
  
"I'll only consider it if she agrees to the plan," Sam insisted firmly. "Otherwise, it's plan B."  
  
"We don't have a plan B!"  
  
"Then I guess you'll just have to talk to Vicki, won't you?"  
  
Reluctantly, Al nodded, then asked, "Do you have any idea why Maggie Evans would want to hurt Vicki?"  
  
Confused by the apparent non sequitur, Sam frowned at him. "Who?"  
  
"Well, that answers that question." Al gestured expansively as they walked. "Maggie Evans. Her father owns the pub in town, and she's having a little extracurricular fling with Roger."  
  
"What makes you think she has anything to do with this?"  
  
"I saw her outside the shack, just before all hell broke loose," Al said darkly. "She was chanting, and I don't mean a mantra."  
  
"But...why? And for that matter, do you mind telling me how?"  
  
"According to Ziggy...black magic." Seeing the look on Sam's face, the Observer hastily added, "I don't like it any more than you do. All this hocus pocus is not my idea of a good time, you know. My idea of a good time--"  
  
Hastily, Sam interrupted. "I know what your idea of a good time is, so spare me the lurid details, okay?"  
  
"Ziggy thinks that we've found the real reason for your daredevil act last night. That circle was some kind of spell aimed at Vicki, and since you currently are Vicki..."  
  
"What about the real Vicki?" Sam asked, suddenly worried. "Did it affect her, at all?"  
  
"No, Ziggy says she's fine--all things considered. It's you we have to worry about. As long as you're Vicki you're going to be in danger here."  
  
"All I have to do is Leap."  
  
"Yeah, and Ziggy says you've changed history," Al said. "Now, Vicki doesn't die at Widow's Hill. That obit vanished as soon as Barnabas pulled you back from the cliff."   
  
His heavy brows knit above somber eyes. "Unfortunately, another one immediately popped up to take its place. The new obituary says that Vicki dies at the Old House. Tomorrow night."  
  
  
* * * *  



	12. Chapter 12

  
  
(12)  
  
  
Although more reluctant than ever to leave Sam alone, Al had returned to the Project to consult with Verbena Beeks about the problem of Vicki's unwanted memories. At Sam's insistence, he had reiterated his promise to obtain her permission before any attempt would be made.  
  
In the meantime, Sam returned to Collinwood. He wasn't planning to set foot outside its walls again until the deadline had passed. The new obituary indicated that Vicki died while visiting the other great house on the   
estate, the Old House. Barnabas Collins' house.  
  
Sam had no intentions of going anywhere near Barnabas Collins, and certainly not to his house. There were just too many unanswered questions about Barnabas--and the answers that they did have weren't exactly comforting. Sam hugged himself, feeling a sudden chill. The longer he was at Collinwood, the more certain it   
seemed that Barnabas was involved somehow in Vicki's death.   
  
Was Barnabas a murderer?  
  
A feminine voice interrupted his morbid thoughts. "Hi, Vicki," Carolyn said cheerfully. As usual, she was dressed to kill in a tight little skirt and cashmere sweater. Only the silk scarf knotted around her neck seemed out   
of place. She was carrying a tray. "Mrs. Johnson said you looked like you could use a cup of tea and some company."  
  
Half-smiling, she added, "Personally, I'd recommend a good stiff drink, but--" She shrugged, and set the tray on the coffee table. "What's your poison, chamomile or orange spice?"  
  
Something sparked in Sam's Swiss-cheesed memory. "Orange spice, please." He accepted the cup and inhaled deeply of the fragrant steam curling about his face. Orange spice. It brought back memories of home, memories of...But the elusive images were gone as swiftly as they had come. He sighed and refocused on the reality around him.  
  
Carolyn was watching him with that strange blend of concern and disdain that he had found so unnerving before. There seemed to be a subtext here that continued to elude him. "Carolyn, is there something you want to tell me?"  
  
The young woman tossed her blonde hair back, and shrugged. "I'm just worried about you. You've been holed up in this mausoleum since your return from the past. You're becoming a recluse! And that isn't good for you or for the people who care about you, Vicki."  
  
She sipped reflectively at her tea, then pinned him with that intense stare. "You haven't even tried to see Barnabas."  
  
"Well, I...I haven't been feeling quite myself," he hedged, and took refuge behind his teacup.  
  
"Barnabas understands that, of course," Carolyn said. "And he would never do anything to make it harder for you, but...This distance you've put between you has to be hurting him."  
  
Sam didn't know what to say. "Carolyn, I--"  
  
She didn't let him finish. "Why don't you go over to the Old House this evening and talk to him?"  
  
"Uhm, I don't know if that's such a good idea..." He toyed with his teaspoon. "I really don't feel so well."  
  
"Have you seen Julia?" Suddenly, the only thing in Carolyn's expression was concern. "You mustn't take chances with your health, Vicki."  
  
Sam finished his tea in a gulp. "If I don't feel better in the morning, I'll talk to her," he promised, rising. "For now, though, I think I'll just go and lie down for a little while."  
  
He felt her gaze on him all the way to the door. His hand was on the knob when she called after him, "Vicki?"  
  
He glanced back, eyebrows arched questioningly.  
  
"Think about what I said, okay? About Barnabas?"  
  
Sam gave her a noncommittal nod and make his escape. He went straight to Vicki's room and collapsed onto the bed. It had been a long day...  
  
He hadn't been there long when, without warning, the door opened and Julia Hoffman strode into the room. Taken aback, Sam could only sit up and stare at her. She offered no apology, merely a stiff smile and the explanation, "Carolyn told me you weren't feeling well."  
  
"I'm just a little tired," Sam said, getting to his feet. Pointedly, he added, " I didn't sleep very well last night."  
  
Her eyes narrowed. "Oh?"  
  
"Uh-huh. I had the strangest dreams..."  
  
"What kind of dreams, Victoria?" There was something like steel in her voice, now. Something hard and cold.   
  
"Oh, you know how dreams are," he said. "Nonsense, mostly. I've already forgotten the details."  
  
"I see." Her mouth was a thin, tight line. That she didn't believe him was obvious. "Well...Is there anything I can do for you?"  
  
"No. Thank you." Realizing he'd been a bit short, he added, "I think I'll just lie down for awhile."  
  
She nodded brusquely and reached for the door, then paused. "Carolyn tells me you're planning to visit Barnabas, tonight."  
  
That was news to Sam. "Actually, I wasn't," he said. "I told Carolyn I wasn't feeling up to visiting anyone."  
  
Julia's frown deepened. "Well. I'll leave you to your nap."  
  
Before Sam could think of a response, she had gone, closing the door behind her. Crossing swiftly to the door, he locked it behind her, then breathed a sigh of relief. Alone at last!  
  
He threw himself on the bed, and stared at the ceiling, his thoughts in a whirl. Why was Carolyn so determined that he go to the Old House tonight? Was it simple matchmaking--or something more? And what was Julia Hoffman's role in all of this? What were they all hiding?  
  
Sam groaned aloud, and muttered, "I feel like I'm stuck in a soap opera!"  
  
"What's a 'soap opera'?"  
  
He bolted upright and stared around him in shock at the source of the unexpected voice. "Sarah!"  
  
The little girl stood at the foot of the bed. She held something in her hands, a small object that she held out to him.   
  
Taking the offering, he saw that it was the music box, which he'd last seen at the old shack. In the aftermath of the apparently magical assault, he'd forgotten all about the music box. Now, he turned it over in his hands. This   
was what had been used to put the spell on him, the spell meant for Vicki. "Do you know anything about this, Sarah? About what someone was trying to do with it?"  
  
"You mean the spell? Yes."  
  
"I almost fell off a cliff last night thanks to that spell," Sam muttered, darkly.  
  
"I know," she said, again. "I brought Barnabas there to save you."  
  
"_You brought_--" Sam gaped at her. "How did you know--?"  
  
"I saw the magic circle and the music box, and I knew your strange friend wouldn't be able to help you. So I told Barnabas that Miss Winters needed him." She reached out and took his hand in both of hers. "Now you must help _him_."  
  
Help Barnabas? Sam's eyes widened. "What do you mean? What kind of help--?"  
  
"You must go to the Old House," she said. "You must help him."  
  
"Sarah..." He hesitated, trying to think. "Sarah, I can't go to the Old House. It's dangerous right now--for me and for Miss Winters."  
  
Tears filled her blue eyes. "But you must, Sam! You must!"  
  
"Tell me what it is that you want for me to do, Sarah."  
  
"You must go," she said plaintively, her voice taking on a eerie quality as she began to fade from sight. "You must..."  
  
And then she was gone.  
  
Sam stared at the empty space that had held the ghost, then dropped his gaze to the music box in his hand. Barnabas' gift--to Josette, to Vicki. It gleamed softly in the light. Of its own accord, his hand moved to lift the lid.   
The sweet strains of the minuet spilled out. In it, he seemed to hear an echo of Sarah's pleas.  
  
_Help him...  
_  
It wasn't in his nature to ignore a cry for help. But if he went to the Old House, would he be placing himself--and by extension, Vicki--in danger?   
  
  
* * * *  



	13. Chapter 13

  
  
(13)  
  
  
It was the first time Al had confronted this particular Visitor when she was neither incoherent nor unconscious. With Verbena Beeks hovering protectively at bedside, he introduced himself. "Ms. Winters, I'm Albert Calavicci. I'd like to talk to you about something very important."  
  
Vicki glanced nervously at Verbena, who gave her a reassuring smile and squeezed her hand. Al noticed that the Visitor was studiously avoiding looking down at herself--at Sam's body. No doubt the gender difference was as confusing for her as it was for Sam; more so, since Sam had been through it before. Gently, he drew her attention back to the matter at hand. "Ms. Winters?"  
  
"Yes, all right..." The sound of her voice--deeper, masculine now--seemed to upset her. Her gaze darted to Verbena again.  
  
"It's all right, dear," the psychiatrist said soothingly. "Just listen to what Al has to say."  
  
Vicki nodded. There were tears in her eyes, and her fingers plucked nervously at the sheets, but she was obviously trying to control her fears. Al appreciated the effort; this Leap hadn't been a picnic for any of them.   
  
"Okay, great," he said warmly, projecting his approval. "I know this is difficult for you. And you probably just want it all to be over so you can go home."  
  
She nodded solemnly.  
  
"Well, we want that too," he said, earnestly. "We want you to be able to go home. But for that to happen, you have to help us."   
  
"What do you want me to do?" It was barely a whisper.  
  
Taking a deep breath, Al began...  
  
  
  
Some time later, Al emerged from the Waiting Room, tired but triumphant. Verbena had stayed behind with the Visitor to begin preparations. Vicki had agreed to let them suppress her memories of 1790--but not before she had, at Ziggy's insistence, recorded it all for the archives. Anxious as he was to get back to Sam, Al had nevertheless listened with interest to Vicki's incredible story. As far as he was concerned, it had pretty much settled the question of whether or not Barnabas Collins was a Creature of the Night--his hand automatically crept up to his neck--and a few other things besides. Of course, it would take more than eyewitness testimony to convince Mr. Skeptic Beckett...  
  
Fortunately, Al didn't have to try. Sam was staying safely away from Barnabas and, once Verbena had taken care of Vicki's memory, Sam could Leap. And they could all put Collinwood behind them.  
  
While her memories of 1790 were all too clear, Vicki was a bit more muddled when it came to her present at Collinwood. How else to explain that, once past her initial shock, she had professed to still have feelings for Barnabas? In love with a vampire? Maybe she was nuts, after all. Al shook his head. Well, it was her neck...  
  
"Admiral?"  
  
"Yeah, Ziggy," Al answered, distractedly, patting his pockets in search of a fresh cigar. "What is it?"  
  
"You had better get to the Imaging Chamber right away, Admiral," the computer said, tensely.   
  
Something in its tone made Al's blood run cold. "What's happened, Ziggy?"  
  
"Dr. Beckett has changed history, again," the machine reported. "Now Victoria Winters--Dr. Beckett--dies _tonight_."  
  
Forgetting everything else, Al ran for the Imaging Chamber.  
  
  
* * * *  



	14. Chapter 14

  
  
(14)  
  
  
Common sense told him he should've stayed at Collinwood, but Sam's conscience wouldn't let him rest until he was knocking on the front door of the Old House. The rising wind tugged at his hair, and he wrapped his anorak more snugly about himself. Shivering, he cast a leery eye skyward. The storm hovered just off shore; ominous lead gray clouds obscured the setting sun.  
  
Just as Sam was about to give up, the door creaked open a crack and an unkempt face peered out at him, eyes widening with astonishment as their owner saw who the visitor was. "Miss Winters? What're you doing here?"  
  
"I need to see Barnabas," Sam said quietly.  
  
Surprise gave way to apprehension, apparent in the young man's darting eyes and suddenly dry lips. He licked them before speaking. "Uh, well...y'see, Barnabas, he...uh..."  
  
"Is something wrong?" Sam asked, beginning to feel a sense of relief. Maybe he was off the hook, after all. "Is Barnabas out? Or busy...?"  
  
For some reason, the young man--who, Sam suddenly realized, must be Barnabas' servant Willie--glanced at the darkening sky. He swallowed audibly, then nodded unhappily. "Yeah, he's here. Come on in." He stepped back, opening the door wide so Sam could enter. "I'll tell him you're here."  
  
As Sam crossed over the threshold, it began to rain.  
  
Willie directed him to the drawing room, a large, elegantly appointed room much like those at Collinwood. "You wait here, Miss Winters. I'll go and tell Barnabas you're here."  
As Willie scurried out, the Door appeared and Al barreled through, almost before it had completely opened. The two men strode right through one another, Al doing a double-take. He shook off his surprise, spotted Sam, and yelled, "What are you doing? You were supposed to stay at Collinwood!"  
  
"Don't worry," Sam said, reasonably. "I'll go straight back and promise I won't set foot out of Vicki's room until after tomorrow night."  
  
"Forget tomorrow night!" Al growled, shaking his cigar at Sam. "History's changed again--Vicki dies tonight."  
  
"Uh-oh."  
  
"Uh-oh is right." Al scowled at him. "And since we still don't know exactly how she dies this time, the smartest thing for you to do would be to get out of here, now."  
  
"I can't," Sam said, miserably. "There's something I have to do first."  
  
"What?"  
  
Sam gave him a sheepish shrug. "I wish I knew."  
  
"Sam, what are you talking about?" Al demanded, impatiently. "If you don't know--"  
  
Before Sam could even begin to explain, the drawing room doors opened and Barnabas Collins strode into the room. Though surely forewarned by his servant, he still seemed surprised by his visitor. "Victoria...How good to see you. May I offer you some refreshment, tea perhaps?"  
  
"No, thanks." Sam shifted nervously, finding it difficult to meet his eyes. "I, uh, wanted to talk to you...to thank you again for what you did. If you hadn't been there to pull me back from the edge..."  
  
"I am, of course, happy to have been of service. I am merely grateful that I was there in time." He studied Sam closely. "Have you any idea what you were doing at Widow's Hill?"  
  
"Well..." Sam looked uncomfortably at his friend, then back at Barnabas. "I may have...uh, been under some sort of, uh, spell."  
  
Al yelped. "Sam, have you lost your mind? What are you telling him that for?"  
  
Shooting the agitated Observer a quelling glance, Sam continued, "I saw the...whatever you call it, the workings of the spell." His hands described a large circle in the air. "Sarah showed me."  
  
"Sam!" Al was near apoplexy with astonishment.  
  
"Sarah." There was no mistaking the pain in Barnabas' voice. "Sweet Sarah..."  
  
"She told me I should come here, this evening," Sam said, filling in the Observer even as he spoke to Barnabas. "I think...I think she wanted me to talk to you."  
  
Barnabas' expression was guarded. "Why would she do that?"  
  
"I don't really know," Sam admitted. "She's worried about you, Barnabas. Maybe you can tell me why."  
  
The other man turned away. "Sarah...seems to be very protective of those of us who dwell at Collinwood. It is perhaps not surprising. We are the only family she has left to her."  
  
In as far as he was willing to accept any theory pertaining to ghosts, Sam was willing to accept this one. "Okay, but why would Sarah believe that you are in danger?"  
  
Startled, Barnabas turned back to face him. "Danger? Is that why you came here, Victoria? To...protect me?"  
  
The handlink squealed for attention. Al glanced at the screen, then reported, "Sam, whatever you're doing....Ziggy says the odds are now 72% that both Vicki and Barnabas survive the night."  
  
"'Both'?" Forgetting himself for a moment, he directed the question directly to Al. "What are you talking about?"  
  
Confused, Barnabas said, "Victoria, what--?"  
  
Al spoke over him. "Uh, well, it seems that Vicki's wasn't the only death," he said sheepishly. "Only we didn't connect it with Barnabas before. A body was found at Widow's Hill, burnt beyond recognition. Since Ziggy is unable to find any reference to Barnabas Collins after that date, it seems likely that the body is his."  
  
"_Now_ you tell me...," muttered Sam, then realized that Barnabas was staring at him. "Uh, just thinking out loud. I sometimes do that when I'm worried."  
  
"About...me?"  
  
Sam wasn't sure what he heard in that soft question: a trace of hope, perhaps, certainly fear. Before he could formulate a reply, Barnabas added, "Have you...remembered?"  
  
"No." Sam shook his head. "I don't remember anything."  
  
The handlink issued an eardrum piercing squeal. Al reported, "Sam, keep going-- the odds are still improving!"  
  
Sam fumbled for the right words. "Barnabas, I...I just want you to know...how I, uh, feel about you."  
  
He shot an imploring glance at the Observer, who shrugged. "She's still nuts about him, crazy as that sounds, even knowing that he's a, uh, you know what."  
  
Sam didn't believe for one moment that "you know whats" existed, much less that the man standing before him was one, so he ignored that part of his friend's answer. Vicki loved this man, and it was up to Sam to tell him so. It had gotten easier, over the course of many Leaps, this rite of speaking for strangers, even these most intimate of words. He looked deep into Vicki's heart, and let her speak through him. "Barnabas, I lov -- "  
  
But the words were drowned out by another voice, a feminine fury that rose to an angry wail. Shouting to make himself heard above the din, Al said, "It's happening again!"  
  
In a blast of icy wind, the ghost appeared, her long blonde hair streaming about her and pure malice gleaming in her eyes. From her parted lips issued the banshee's wail.  
  
Barnabas thrust himself between Sam and the apparition. "_Angelique_." The name was a curse, spat out as if it tasted foul. "I will not let you harm her!"  
  
The spirit laughed. "Ah, mon amour....Clinging still to this hopeless fantasy of a happily ever after? Such can never be yours, Barnabas. Not with her!"  
  
Al stepped in front of Sam, drawing his attention. "Sam, tell her, it, whateverthehellitis...that it doesn't matter. Tell her nothing she does will change the way you feel."  
  
Obediently, Sam, striving to sound sincere, parroted, "It's no use, Angelique. Nothing you do will change how I feel."  
  
"Good, Sam. Now--"  
  
"Silly chit," the apparition sneered. "Your foolish emotions will do you little good if you are dead and decaying in your grave!"  
  
"No!" Barnabas shouted, lunging at the ghost. His grasping fingers passed easily through her insubstantial throat, and she laughed at his impotent fury. "Damn you, witch! This time you shall not prevail."  
  
"There will be another time, my love." Again, her malevolent laughter rose. "Do we not have all of eternity, you and I?"  
  
The ghost wind became a swirling, destructive maelstrom, tearing at their hair and clothing, sweeping ornaments from the tables, whipping the flames in the fireplace into a frenzy. Angelique's laughter rose with it, rode it, spurring it onward to greater fury....  
  
And, just as suddenly, it ceased. The ethereal storm was gone, and with it, the witch, leaving behind shattered bric-a-brac and three stunned witnesses. Al broke the eerie silence, with a strained attempt at humor. "And I thought my ex-wives were bad..."  
  
Sam ignored him. Straightening his hair as best he could, he set himself to rights, then called gently, "Barnabas?"  
  
A long moment passed before Barnabas turned. His shoulders were rigid beneath the dark suit coat, his finely carved features seemed wrought of stone. That faint glimmer of hope was gone, leaving his eyes dark and fathomless, like twin wells of eternity. He didn't speak.  
  
"You don't have to explain," Sam said quickly, with a furtive glance at Al, who nodded. He was on the right track, again. "I don't want you to. It doesn't matter, now. Nothing matters except what we feel."  
  
And now, finally, Barnabas spoke. "Then tell me, Victoria," he said softly. "What do you feel?"  
  
"Tell him, Sam," Al urged quietly. "Ziggy thinks it's what you're here for."  
  
Sam took a deep breath, reached for that part of him that was, at this moment, Vicki, and said. "I love you."  
  
Distantly, he was aware of Al...saying something encouraging, happily reporting the changed history...but the words were suddenly meaningless, lost in the electric hum building in his brain. He closed his eyes, felt a gentle hand caress his cheek...  
  
...and the blue-white glory of the Leap engulfed him, swept him up...  
  
And he was gone.  
  
  
* * * *  
  



	15. Chapter 15

Part Two: Barnabas Collins  
  
_When you lose control  
And you have no soul  
It's tragedy...  
_ --THE BEE GEES (_Tragedy_)   
  
  
(1)  
  
  
_For some reason, the lightning flash of transition seemed almost painful as he Leaped...  
_  
Sam opened his eyes and found himself face to face with Victoria Winters, his hand cupping her cheek, his lips inches from hers. He had Leaped...but he hadn't left Collinwood. Fortunately, it seemed as if most of his memory of the previous Leap was still intact.  
  
The woman before him swayed unsteadily on her feet. Reacting instinctively, Sam caught her before she could fall. She clung to him, her breath coming too fast and her heart racing. It took him a second to realize that he could actually hear it, her heartbeat resounding like thunder in his ears. How--?  
  
"Barnabas?" Her brow furrowing in confusion, she peered up at him. "How did I--? What were we--?"  
  
"It's all right," he said, keeping his voice low and reassuring. "You're all right."  
  
"Am I? I feel..." She let her voice trail away as she stepped back from him and looked around as if she had no idea how she had gotten to the Old House--which, of course, she hadn't. She rubbed her forehead. "I think I have a headache."  
  
"Let's get you back to Collinwood," Sam said, taking her arm and guiding her gently toward the door. She still seemed a bit unsteady on her feet. "I'm sure you'll feel better after a good night's sleep."  
  
Victoria nodded dubiously, as if she doubted the cure would be so simple. "You're probably right. I should--Sleep sounds like a very good idea, right now. I feel...Maybe I should ask Willie to escort me home."  
  
Sam started to say he would walk her back to Collinwood himself, when he felt a wave of weakness sweep through his body. He reached out and braced himself against the nearby wall until the sensation passed. After a moment, he conceded, "Maybe that would be best. Willie!"  
  
The servant appeared so quickly Sam had a sneaking suspicion Willie had been lurking just around a handy corner. Eavesdropping? Or something more? Well, he would deal with that later. For now, his main concern was getting Vicki home safely. "Willie, I want you to escort Ms. Winters back to Collinwood."  
  
"Sure thing, Barnabas." The rangy little man looked oddly relieved. "I'll do that right away. Don't you worry none, Miss Winters," he added to Vicki, "Ol' Willie Boy'll make sure you get home all right."  
  
"Thank you, Willie." She smiled at him, then turned back to Sam. "Good night, Barnabas."  
  
"Good night," Sam said. He walked with them as far as the front steps, and stood watching as they moved off into the darkness. As he turned to go back inside, another wave of dizziness assaulted him and he paused, holding onto the door frame for support.   
  
"Sam!" It was Al, a thick wool scarf was wrapped tightly around his neck, along with a string of...garlic?  
  
Straightening, Sam stared at his friend. His eyes weren't deceiving him; the Observer had an entire string of whole garlic bulbs dangling around his neck. There seemed to be an unusually religious motif to his outfit as well: crosses were attached to both lapels, fighting for space with the scarf and still more garlic pinned to the cloth. For once Sam was glad his friend wasn't physically present; no doubt Al smelled quite pungent.   
  
For some reason, it made Sam uncomfortable to look directly at those crosses for more than a few seconds at a time. His skin crawled and his stomach clenched; he had to fight an instinctive urge to retreat. Of course, Al's ensembles frequently produced similar reactions, but...   
  
Looking away, he said, "Do you mind telling me what prompted this particular fashion statement?"   
  
Instead of a direct answer, Al shook his cigar and said, "I hate this place, Sam. It's spook central! We've had to deal with a time traveling governess, ghosts, and a vampire! I don't even want to know what this place is going to throw at us, next."  
  
Sam's stomach clenched. He recalled that Ziggy had been fixated on the idea, but... "Barnabas actually thinks he's a vampire?"  
  
"He's not the only one." Al cleared his throat. "I told you there was something weird about him."  
  
Sam didn't answer right away. He was distracted by a sudden new sensation, akin to hunger, but far stronger than any hunger pangs he'd ever known. Maybe that earlier spasm hadn't been caused by anxiety, after all.  
  
"Sam, are you okay?" Al asked, suddenly concerned. "You don't look so good."  
  
"I don't feel so good, " Sam admitted. He winced, as the strange sensations intensified. "In fact, I feel...strange."  
  
He began to tremble. A cold, greasy sweat broke out on his brow. "I don't know what it is," he said through gritted teeth. The only explanation that came into this spinning mind was that these were the symptoms of some kind of withdrawal. Was Barnabas an addict?  
  
"Sam, don't you dare do this to me!" Al said fiercely. "Don't do this..."  
He tried unsuccessfully to grab his friend as Sam doubled over, the expression on his face enough to make Al cry out in sympathy. Helpless, he watched as the pain drove Sam to his knees. After an eternity, Sam looked up, his face haggard. "I think...I'm all right, now."  
  
He was startled when Al backed away from him, dark eyes widening in shock. "Al? What's wrong?"  
  
"Y-your eyes,'" Al stammered, staring at him with wild eyes of his own. "And your teeth..."  
  
_His teeth?_ Sam felt his teeth with his tongue. His upper canines were unnaturally long and, as he discovered the hard way, sharp. "Ouch!"  
  
"Just don't get any funny ideas," Al warned, shielding his neck with both hands. The handlink cast odd shifting shadows on his face. "My jugular is off limits!"  
  
"What're you worried about? You're a hologram."  
  
"Oh. Yeah." Al relaxed visibly. "And as long as he's in your body, our friend Barnabas doesn't have fangs..."   
  
He huffed a sigh of relief. "Well. That's a load off my mind."  
  
Of course, it didn't do Sam any good. It took every ounce of self-control he possessed not to run screaming into the night. A vampire? He couldn't be a vampire. Vampires were myths, they didn't exist.   
  
But the hunger twisting in his gut said otherwise.  
  
Clinging to his sanity with both hands and in tenuous control of himself once more, Sam looked at his friend. "Al?" His voice was ragged. "I don't think I can do this."  
  
"Of course you can, Sam," the Observer said loyally. "You're not him, you can control it."  
  
"How can you be so sure?" There was despair in Sam's eyes, along with a plea for Al to convince him he was wrong. "You don't know what it feels like. If you were physically here, I--"  
  
He shuddered. "I don't want to think about what I might do."  
  
All this supernatural stuff made Al's skin crawl, but he'd be damned if he'd let his best friend face it alone. Even if it meant confronting ghoulies and ghastlies and every damn thing that went bump in the night. He said firmly,   
"Nothing happened, Sam. Nothing's gonna happen. You'll be fine."  
  
"I hope you're right," Sam said, unconvinced. He was still shaking.  
  
"Of course I'm right." Al sneaked a peek at the handlink. "But, uh, might be a good idea if you didn't stray too far from home."  
  
Sam didn't ask what prompted the suggestion; it sounded like a good one, at least until he'd gotten over the urge to sink his teeth into somebody's jugular. Not that he'd ever really do that of course.  
  
Not _really_.  
  
He was almost positive.  
  
In silence, they walked into the house. Al's attention was riveted to the handlink, and Sam's mind wouldn't let go of the notion that he was...a vampire.  
  
A vampire.  
  
The man who'd dreamed of traveling through time and made it happen, simply couldn't get his imagination around the idea of vampires. As a scientist, he'd trained his mind to see things logically, rationally. Things like ghosts and vampires just weren't in the equations.  
  
Vampires..  
  
He wondered briefly if there was time for a small nervous breakdown, and wandered into the drawing room, Al at his heels.  
  
Sam clenched his fists; firelight glinted off the onyx ring on one finger. He stared at it distractedly, still trying to come to grips with the situation. Al said soothingly, "Just keep reminding yourself that it's not really you, Sam.   
You'll handle this."  
  
"What if I can't?" Sam's voice was barely a whisper. "What if I can't control it? What if I...hurt...somebody?"  
  
"You won't, Sam. You--"  
  
Al's voice broke as his friend doubled over, clutching at the nearest chair for support. "Sam?"  
  
_"Oh, God--"_ It was a genuine prayer. As the hunger sank its razor claws into him again, Sam clutched one arm across his stomach as if to contain the agony twisting inside him. With the other, he clung to the back of the chair; it was all that was keeping him on his feet.  
  
Al rushed to his side, but he was only a hologram here, unable to affect anything around him. He stabbed uselessly at the flickering handlink. "Dammit, Ziggy, do something. _Help_ him."  
  
Oblivious to everything but the hunger writhing inside him, searing him, Sam crumpled to the floor, his fingernails ripping jagged furrows in the chair's upholstery as he fell. Red mist clouded his spinning mind, obscuring thought.  
A new instinct rose up in him, a dark instinct that demanded he feed the beast within him--with blood.  
  
He fought the desire, the blazing need coursing through him. Fought the instinct, the urge to hunt... He shook himself, hands clenching in the ruins of the tapestry cushion. This was insane, he was insane--he _must_ be. This couldn't be happening to him; he was _not_ a vampire.  
  
But there it was again, just on the cusp of hearing, a tantalizing sound...  
  
Sam's head snapped up, searching. Like a distant drumbeat, the sound was a steady rhythm--lub-dub, lub-dub, the vibrant double beat of a human heart.  
Unconsciously, he tipped his head back to scent the air. There was something... Something close by. Warm. Vital. Beckoning him. He wanted it. He _needed_ it, more than he had ever needed anything in his entire life.  
  
He went to find it.  
  



End file.
